The Lords of Winter
by Stressed Muffin
Summary: Jon would always be a Bastard. He could never inherit but he could protect his family. He could defend The North. Protecting his family he could do himself. But protecting The North? He would need followers, like the Knights of the South but dedicated to The North, not to glory. Bastard and true-born alike - The Lords of Winter would protect The North. Cover image by Melaamory. AU.
1. Chapter 1

The Bear and the Wolf Cubs

Jon hadn't wanted to go exploring but Robb had convinced him that it would be fun. Robb thought that it was a good idea and he was far better at persuading people to agree with him than Jon ever would be. On top of that though, he looked up to his older brother and thought he could do no wrong because, compared to Jon, he was perfect at everything. Robb was a better shot with a bow, a better swordsman, better rider and better at all of their lessons as well. It stood to reason, to Jon at the time, that he knew what he was talking about when it came to the decision to go exploring.

It was the first time Jon could remember his older brother being proven wrong in such a spectacular fashion and he couldn't even begin to feel happy about it.

The journey into the woods had gone well at first, the two of them chasing each other through the thick Wolfswood as they explored. Looking for Direwolves, Robb declared when they had snuck out of the front gates of Winterfell. Whatever they had been doing, the result was the same. They had become hopelessly lost within the thick woods and the cold of night had begun to close in around them.

They must have been unknowingly walking in circles because they hadn't gotten anywhere close to an edge of the woods in hours of walking. In the dead of night they had huddled together under their thin fur coats, shaking in the cold and praying their father or his men would stumble across them at any moment. In their desperation they had found what appeared to be a small cave in the side of a rather large hill.

Jon had gone to look for some sticks, with the optimistic idea of being able to start a fire, when he heard Robb shouting out in pain, a deep roar following after.

Forgetting the sticks in an instant, Jon drew the tiny dagger his father had trusted him with on his last namesday. He didn't know what he was expecting to find but what he stumbled in on was something he knew he would never forget. Robb was on the ground, trying to crawl backwards, with three deep red slashes across his chest. Above his brother, readying another swipe of its claws, was a giant bear, thick and brown and ugly.

Jon wasn't as smart as Robb but he knew that he was no match for a bear. Bears took dozens of experienced hunters to take down and even then extreme caution had to be used. But seeing his brother, his big brother, defenceless against the attacking creature was too much for Jon's young mind.

With a mindless scream of anger and fear, Jon charged the great creature. It was turned away from him, interested more in Robb, and that was the only reason he was able to get as close to it as he did. Jumping onto the back of the massive creature, Jon fisted some of its fur and used it as handholds to climb higher up the bear's back. The creature flailed wildly, trying to bat him away with its threatening claws, but he was too far behind it for its thick limbs to actually reach him. Still acting on instinct though, Jon held on tightly with his left hand and stabbed downwards with his dagger in the right.

By the grace of the Gods his wild stab landed square in the beast's eye.

The roar he had heard before was nothing compared to the howl of pain the creature let loose now. It damn near deafened the poor boy and let him know he had done enough damage to enrage the creature but not enough to actually kill it. Robb managed to back away from the confrontation quickly enough to avoid the now madly flailing beast as it tried again to shake Jon loose. Holding on became Jon's only thought and he let go of his dagger to use his other hand to grab hold as well. His fresh hand was covered in the bear's blood however and the fur slipped through his desperately clutching fingers.

All it would take was another good shake and he would be on the ground, at the non-existent mercy of the beast.

The first rock Robb threw at the bear missed its head and sailed past Jon's own. Confused, he managed to see the second rock hitting the bear square on the nose. The beast and Jon looked at Robb at the same time, seeing the heir of Winterfell clutching on arm to his wounded chest and throwing another stone with the other. Enraged with Robb once again, the bear made a few lumbering steps towards him and Robb seemed to be in too much pain to actually escape this time.

Pulling himself up again with determination more befitting a knight than a young bastard son of a Lord, Jon grabbed hold of his dagger again, yanking it free and distracting the bear again. Panicking slightly as the beast's attention was back on him, Jon stabbed again. This time was slightly more aimed than the last and the steel of the dagger sank into the neck of the bear, which roared once again in a mighty rage. Without waiting to see how much damage he had caused, Jon pulled the dagger free before stabbing back at the neck again and again. His arm was becoming tired but he continued stabbing, blood coating his hand and arm as the beast's pained roars became more and more strained.

The bear pitched forwards, crashing to the ground with a pitiful growl as Jon rode it all the way down to the ground.

Jon finally let go of the creature's fur and staggered a few steps away from it, eyeing it warily. The bear attempted to rise but the blood loss and damage to its head and neck seemed to be weighing too heavily on the creature for it couldn't raise itself more than a few inches off the ground before collapsing again. Jon felt a pang of sadness and guilt as he saw the once powerful creature brought low by nothing but a boy mad with the idea of protecting his older brother. Of course thinking about his reasons for attacking the bear made Jon far more accepting of its fate. But right now it was suffering without need. It was going to die – even Jon could see that – but it wasn't going to die quickly.

Easing his way forwards, Jon stopped a foot or so away from its head, seeing the bear watching him with its remaining eye. It felt like it was judging him. Or begging him. Either way, he quickly darted forwards and yanked his dagger free before jumping back. The bear let out another weak roar of pain but was otherwise still. Edging forwards, Jon knelt down in the frost next to the beast's head and took a hold of his dagger with both hands. Taking a deep breath, he raised it high above his head before stabbing down with all the strength of his seven year old frame.

Thankfully the dagger was sharp enough that it broke straight through the top of the creature's skull, killing it instantly.

As with most 'green boys', Jon turned and vomited when he made his first kill. He had ridden along with his father and Robb on some small hunts and seen deer and rabbits killed. A few months earlier he and Robb had witnessed their father execute someone for the first time. He had managed to avoid losing his supper over those incidents but this was far too personal for him to ignore it – something was dead literally only because of him.

He had to use his foot to gain enough leverage to prise his dagger from the beast's skull, his strength had been barely enough to get it through the skull in the first place and now it was like the bone resisted his attempts to remove the dagger. He wiped his dagger clean gingerly against the fur of the bear.

"Is it dead?"

Robb's quiet question startled Jon more than it probably soon have done. For some reason Jon felt the blood pounding in his ears, making it harder to hear Robb than it should have been. Turning to his ignored brother, Jon was reminded of the claw marks on his brother's chest. Forgetting about the bear, he clambered over to Robb, pulling his brother's arm away to look at the marks on his chest. They were deep and they were bleeding quite heavily. Jon thought frantically – what would maester Luwin do? He swallowed thickly,

"Aye… aye it's dead." He replied softly, coming down from the level of heightened senses and energy. He was suddenly bone-tired and wanted nothing more than to crawl into his bed back at Winterfell. He licked his dry lips as he sank down onto the ground beside Robb, "We need to get back to Winterfell... Maester Luwin needs to make your chest better."

Ever the older brother, Robb attempted a cocky smirk but was too pained to make it seem natural. Instead it twisted into a grimace of pain. No doubt the older boy had been about to make some remark about how it wasn't all that bad and the pain had interrupted him. And to make matters worse it was beginning to snow. It was just a light splattering right now but Jon knew the weather of the North well enough to know that it likely wouldn't stay a light snowfall for long.

Helping his brother to the small save the bear had thoughtfully vacated, Jon looked back at the beast's massive, furry, carcase before coming up with an idea. Leaving Robb to rest against the wall of the cave, Jon fetched his dagger and knelt back down beside the bear. Fur was fur and Robb would get colder as he was injured – at least that's what he remembered from when Robb had been sick in bed last year. He had shivered and felt the cold so much more than usual. But they had no more furs ready – they only had a massive bear dead at their feet.

He had no idea what he was doing and he likely ruined more fur than he actually skinned from the giant beast. This wasn't helped by the fact that he had thrown up again the first time he had peeled the beast's skin and fur back and saw its insides. Forcing himself through it for his older brother's sake, Jon pulled enough fur from the creature to drape around Robb's upper body if nothing else. Returning to his brother, Jon could see that he was shivering more and looked very pale. Wrapping the fur around his brother's shoulders, Jon put his dagger away. He held a hand out to Robb,

"We need to get home Robb… come on, get up."

Robb scowled a little bit at being ordered by his little brother but did as he was told. Jon helped pull Robb to his feet before realising that his older brother wasn't steady enough on his feet to make it too far. He turned around and knelt down slightly. Robb got the message and gingerly climbed atop his younger brother's back, arms wrapped tightly around his neck. The whimper of pain Robb let out as Jon stood up wasn't lost on the younger boy,

"I'm sorry Robb but you won't make it back to Winterfell if I don't carry you."

Not waiting for any response, Jon started the long trudge back home.

Picking a direction his gut told him was right, he squared his shoulders and held his brother's hand as he carried him forwards. Each and every step caused his brother pain but Jon had to believe that it would be better his brother experienced some small pains now and was able to be seen by Maester Luwin sooner rather than later. The Maester had been there to clean and heal their first scars from their fairly recently sword training sessions – he would be able to do the same for Robb now.

Neither of them spoke as he trudged his way home with his brother atop his back. Neither was sure if they were going in the right direction and the snow was getting heavier with every step it seemed. But despite all of that, Jon was determined that he would get his older brother back home safe – he didn't really think about his own health or safety at this time, he was thinking only of Robb. Jon Snow carried Robb Stark through the beginnings of a small snowstorm and beyond. Hours passed and he just trudged on with the same single-minded determination that had helped him fell a massive predator.

The tiredness, the soreness, was ingrained in his bones by the time they emerged from the treeline, spotting the towers of Winterfell across the field between the edge of the woods and the walls of the old castle. Just seeing the towers of Winterfell, and the Direwolf flags flying high, was enough to have Jon forget about the tiredness he was feeling, giving him enough energy to march closer to the gates. The small folk in the town around the castle avoided them – they didn't look like the children of Eddard Stark after all. They were covered in ice and snow and, in Jon's case, dried blood. They were almost to the gates when one of the guards on duty noticed who they were. One guard sprinted back into the castle and the other rushed forwards to meet them. Jon ground to a halt and was certain he couldn't have taken another step if his life depended on it then.

Robb, who Jon realised belatedly wasn't awake, was lifted off of his shoulders by the guard, who began shouting for the Maester. Jon was too tired to protest or try to follow as the guard carried Robb inside the castle walls. Only a guiding hand by another guard coaxed him into moving forwards into the castle itself. Left to lean against a wall, Jon watched with glazed over eyes as Maester Luwin and his father came rushing out of the main keep. The elderly Maester immediately began examining Robb and ordered the guards to carrying him away to his lab. Their father held Robb's hand desperately for a few moments before spotting him.

Always the same way – their father looked for Robb first before he ever looked for Jon.

Jon was shivering from the cold and was surprised by the sudden embrace his father wrapped him up in. He welcomed it though – he could count on one hand the number of times his father had honestly, and openly, embraced him like he was doing now. But even with that happy thought in his mind he only had one thing on his mind. Eddard Stark opened his mouth to speak but Jon spoke first. Spoke the burning question he had burning a hole in his mind,

"Will Robb be okay?"

Eddard Stark paused and Jon saw a strange expression cross his eyes before his father smiled one of his big, sad, smiles and placed a strong hand on Jon's shoulder. The additional weight on his tired body almost made him collapse,

"Yes… Maester Luwin assures me that the wounds are not deep." He spoke in his usual quiet but firm voice before adding, "The corruption, he says, is only very minor at the moment. If he had gotten to Luwin later though he would be in danger. The guards… they told me you were carrying him Jon."

He was so tired. Couldn't his father see this? He probably could, he realised, but Robb was still in danger – Robb came first. He nodded tiredly,

"We were in the Wolfswood – Robb thought it would be fun to explore. But we got lost and we couldn't remember where Winterfell was." He explained quietly, not wanting to explain all of this right now but knowing that his father needed to know, "We found a cave and thought he might have to make a fire but there was a bear…"

He trailed off and he could see that his father had already put some of the pieces together and knew what had happened. The important things at least. Eddard touched the drying blood on Jon's arm and looked him in the eye. Jon was beginning to feel a little bit uncomfortable before his father broke the awkwardness by speaking,

"You fought the bear."

It wasn't a question but it was also incorrect.

"I killed the bear." He corrected his father before adding, "It was going after Robb. I… I had to stop it."

Jon wasn't prepared for the tightness of his father's next embrace. There was such warmth behind it that many would be surprised that the usually cold but fair Eddard Stark was the one showing such affection. The level of affection was what surprised Jon the most, right up until his father spoke again,

"Jon… I have never been proud of you than I am right now." He explained to the young boy, pulling out of the embrace to stare into his eyes seriously, "Not for killing the bear – though that is impressive. I'm proud of you because you put yourself at risk for your brother like that. Always remember Jon, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives. You're a part of this family, this pack, and if you keep protecting them our family will be safe. Will you promise me, that you'll always protect our family Jon?"

Even so young, Jon knew that this was a massive responsibility. He would be protecting his family from anything that would harm them. And it wouldn't just be bears when they grew up, it would be men and women and other families. He would have to protect them against bigger and stronger things. But he would protect Robb, his beloved elder brother. And the girls, pretty Sansa and loud Arya. And even little Bran, so small that he wondered how he had ever been that small. He swallowed heavily and looked up at his father,

"I will protect our family father."


	2. Chapter 2

Family, Duty, Honour

The disappearance of Robb into the forest had hit Catelyn Stark harder than any had expected. She had fretted and stayed out too long in the cold and snow. Before Robb and Jon had returned to Winterfell she had been taken inside by Maester Luwin but the worst of the damage was done already. She was with fever by the time Jon carried his brother through the gates of Winterfell and by the time both boys were deemed well enough to see her, the next day, she was bed-ridden with cold cloth being pressed against her face as the maester sought to make her more comfortable.

Maester Luwin muttered to himself while he worked on cooling her down, hence how Robb and Jon found out that Catelyn Stark's diagnosis was grim. It seemed that for all her years in the North, the Lady Stark had not become accustomed to its climate. Her health was failing and it was doing so quickly. Robb was beside himself and both Arya and Sansa were crying almost every time Jon saw them. Bran wasn't as bad but that was because their father had decided to keep this from the youngest for now, but still, the young boy was very capable of feeling the mood in others and could tell something bad was happening.

Eddard Stark, for the first time Jon had known, looked weak. His father, a strong and virtuous man of the North, looked for all the world like a green boy again. As if he hadn't ever faced loss before. Or… or perhaps he was reflecting on how this loss would be added to those he had already suffered. Jon didn't know at the time and would never come to question it too much. By the time he would actually understand the look in his father's eyes, Jon knew, in his heart, he would not have to ask the question, he would already know what his father was feeling.

It was a testament to how quickly the fever was burning through Lady Stark that Jon had been standing at the doorway to her room and had yet to be shooed away.

All of the other Starks, minus Bran and Benjen, were crowded around her bed as she tried to give them some words of encouragement. It was clear to all to see that Catelyn Stark thought that this was going to be her death bed. The Maester's heavy gaze on her glassy eyes and red forehead seemed to suggest that the healer agreed with the Stark Matriarch. No doubt the other Starks were afraid of this but would not be surprised by it.

Even a fool could see that Catelyn Stark was not long for this world and, despite what Theon Greyjoy would say, Jon Snow was far from being a fool.

The Stark children were dismissed and Jon stepped aside to allow them to leave, glancing back only to see Lord Stark bending over his dying lady wife, the usually quiet man quickly succumbing to grief. Jon had never held much love in his heart for Lady Catelyn Stark – she had given him none after all – but it very nearly broke his heart to see his father, so proud and so strong, on his knees weeping over his love.

Jon turned and followed the Stark children, Robb specifically. Arya and Sansa were taken away by the Septa, leaving Robb and Jon alone. Robb was striding with purpose but Jon kept pace, just a few steps behind him all the way. It soon became clear that Robb was heading to the Godswood. Jon hesitated for a moment at the entrance before bowing his head and following his brother into the grotto of the Old Gods.

Robb knelt down in front of a heart-tree and Jon simply lingered, feeling more and more out of place with every passing second. He knew that Robb was praying to the Old Gods in the way their father had taught him – trying to honour his mother – but Jon could not bring himself to pray for the woman who had shown him nothing but hatred. He was young but he knew how much Catelyn Stark despised him. He didn't know all of the reasons for her hate but he knew enough to know that there was never to be a change in her feelings towards him – she would never be a mother to him as she had been to Robb and the other Starks.

He merely sat on one of the stones by the closest hot spring to the heart-tree that Robb was praying in front of. Jon idly ran his fingertips along the surface of the warm waters as he waited for his brother to finish his prayers. He likely would be waiting a long time but Jon Snow had more patience than Robb or any of the other children at Winterfell. Some said he was forced to mature quicker because he wasn't his father's true son.

Jon was surprised when Robb looked up from his prayers but he was still staring at the Heart-tree so he paid it no mind at first. That was, until Robb spoke,

"What is it like to live without a mother Jon?"

The question hit Jon like a physical blow and he felt a deep-seated anger rising from his chest at the very sore subject Robb was bringing up. He scowled darkly and almost snapped at his older brother when he saw that Robb was still just staring at the Heart-tree, tears staining his face. Jon swallowed his anger. His brother hadn't meant to goad him with the question as Theon might have done – his brother wanted to have some degree of comfort when it came to the death of his mother. Jon took a deep breath before answering honestly,

"I don't know." He said with a weak shrug, not sure how to actually put the feelings across, "I never knew my mother – I don't have much to miss I guess."

He wasn't good with words. He did well enough in his studies with the Maester but he didn't speak as well as Robb, he didn't know how to make truths sound better when they were bad. Maybe he would get the hang of it when he was older. Robb turned to Jon at his answer,

"Please Jon." He pleaded, "Tell me what it is like to have only a father then."

Okay, that part Jon could answer a little bit better. He thought about how to phrase it though, how to actually convey it as he wanted. Rubbing his hands together, Jon stared at the ground for a few moments before giving his older brother his answer,

"It's… hard. Father is a good man, a great man. But he… he doesn't show the same level of love that Lady Stark does to you and the others." He explained quietly, "To only have a father is bad… hard… because what you do has to make him proud. With mother and father I guess you have more chance of making one proud at least but with just father… there's a pressure to make him proud I guess."

More silence.

Seemed like Robb was thinking his words over. Jon, on the other hand, just felt rather hollow now that he had actually put his feelings into words and spoken them. They were no longer secret. He knew he could trust Robb to keep any of his secrets but it was still rather strange to have his thoughts laid so bare. To try and explain how hard it was to be the Bastard of Winterfell, the ill-begotten son of Lord Eddard Stark.

The two boys sat in silence in the sight of the Old Gods as they thought on Jon's words. Jon knew that it would be a shock to Robb, living with only their father as parent. But he was certain that his brother would grow stronger despite the pain he might feel.

"Mother never liked you."

It wasn't a question and neither boy had to expand on it.

"I know."

The silence was back again but this time it was slightly more uncomfortable, making Jon fidget slightly in place on the rock. He sighed a little bit, still looking at the soft ground in front of him,

"You're still my family Jon." Robb announced, startling Jon enough to have him return his gaze to his older brother. Robb was smiling sadly at him, "Mother never liked you. But father loves you. And you are my brother – my family."

Jon smiled a little bit despite the sober mood before deciding to tell Robb what he had sworn to their father,

"When I brought you back father asked me to swear something…" he admitted quietly, "That I would always protect our family, Robb. I will grow into a strong warrior to better help you. You will be Lord Stark and I will help you with anything you need."

There was another silence now but with smiles on the face of them both, Jon felt that it was a lot less awkward. For a split second, Jon thought about what it would mean in the future. Robb, his brother, with Ice on his back sitting in their father's chair, with Jon a few steps behind him in full armour. The thought was gone in an instant but Jon couldn't help but smile a little wider at the thought.

He wanted it to be true – he would do whatever it took to protect his brother and the rest of his siblings.

"Family, Duty, Honour."

Jon blinked a little bit in surprise,

"What?"

Robb snorted in amusement – the first sign Jon had seen of something more than sadness in his brother since they had learnt of Lady Stark's illness. His older brother shook his head slightly,

"You ever listen to the Maester?" he japed before adding, with the same sadness Jon had noticed from before, "They're the words of my mother's house – House Tully. I'm her son but when you said that Jon, sounded like you were more Tully than me."

Jon could say for certain that if Catelyn herself had heard those words said she would have struck Robb and had Jon hauled away for daring to listen to a comparison drawn between himself and her house. But with just his brother here, Jon felt comfortable enough to smile and take it as a compliment. He had never dwelled on the words of House Tully before but now Robb had said it, Jon could see some truth in the words.

Family. First, above all else. Family was to be protected and elevated above the needs and desires of the one.

Duty. Duty tied into the first word nicely but it also meant to a wider group – to those that served their House and those his House was to obey.

Honour. To Jon, honour was nice. It was something that knights from the stories and songs had and were able to use to woo young maidens. But he would never have as much honour as someone else – a true son. So it was important… but family and duty outweighed it heavily to Jon.

He smiled a little wider as he noted, in his mind only, how close the House words of Lady Stark fitted with his personal beliefs. Could he have been a Tully in a past life? Only the Gods knew that and, as usual, they were silent. The silence was broken by the approach of someone else. Both Robb and Jon stood when they recognised that it was their father.

Jon turned away as his father embraced Robb tightly and the two of them shared some reassuring whispers about Lady Stark. It wasn't meant for Jon's ears however. Instead he wondered if he would be able to rope the Master at Arms into giving him some more training with his training sword. He was almost out of the Godswood when his father called out to him,

"Jon. Come with me."

Without a word, Jon obeyed and followed his father back into the keep. Keeping up with the stride of his father was much harder than keeping pace with Robb due to the vast difference in the length of their legs. Managing to keep up only with a half-job, Jon was surprised to see that his father was taking him back towards Lady Stark's chambers. It was surprising because he had only gotten away with being in the doorway to her room because she had likely not noticed him at all. To have his father taking him to her chambers was… odd.

Lady Stark looked even worse than when he had last seen her – and he had last seen her no more than an hour ago!

It seemed that saying goodbye to her children had sapped her of whatever strength she had left – almost like she thought that was all she really had left to do before she would allow herself to actually rest from this fever. He glanced uncertainly at his father but he just gestured for Jon to enter the chambers, to go over to Lady Stark. Hesitating with each step, Jon made his way to the bedside of the woman who had hated him for his entire life. She was a wonderful mother to Robb and the others but she had never been his mother – never acted like it and had never deserved to be called it, in his own mind.

Kneeling at her bedside as his siblings had done before, Jon noted that even with the pains of fever, Lady Stark's eyes held nothing but contempt for him. Oh it was dulled by the pain and the fever he knew but he could see her hate of him behind her eyes and it made him shiver slightly. What had he ever done to this woman to deserve such unending hatred?

The fact that he was born was through no fault of his own.

He swallowed the fear he had long held in his heart for Catelyn Stark – she was dying and there was no need to fear the hate of a dying woman after all. The two of them just watched each other for a few long moments before Lady Stark broke the silence,

"I hate you Jon Snow."

It was known to all but it had never been stated so plainly. Jon heard his father take a sharp breath but nothing more. He himself just met Catelyn's gaze with a slight shiver. It was hard to have his suspicions confirmed it would seem. He nodded once,

"I know you do Lady Stark."

There was another pause.

"Do you hate me, Snow?"

There was a strange question. He knew she hated him and he had known it for years. But did he hate her because of the anger she held towards him? It took him a little bit to actually find the answer and he delayed slightly longer before admitting,

"No, I don't hate you Lady Stark."

Another silence.

"I wanted you to die when you were younger."

It was all coming out now wasn't it? Not surprising that she had wanted him dead to be honest – the hatred she had for him seemed to suggest that she wouldn't shed any tears if he had died at any point. He swallowed thickly but didn't respond. How did you reply to something like that? He was a young boy and he had been told someone had wished for his death.

The silence was stifling and he could tell that his father was unhappy with what was being discussed. But he didn't say a word. Likely because Lady Stark was likely making this part of her dying request – to be able to air her hate for him openly for the last time. Lady Stark broke the silence,

"But… days ago… you saved Robb."

The bear in the woods – had it really been only a few days? It seemed longer to Jon but he supposed that might have had something to do with the atmosphere that had been hanging around the castle since their return – since Lady Stark took ill. He didn't answer her verbally, just nodding one more time as he watched her.

Hate was still there but she was talking of her children and, as always, that brought a spark of light to her eyes.

"Ned told me… told me you swore to protect my son… my family."

Of course – it wasn't 'our' family. She only saw that the Starks were her family, as if she always severed his connection to them within her own mind. He didn't doubt she had been thinking in such a way since she had met him,

"Aye."

It was a simple statement and a simple answer. Catelyn seemed to stiffen slightly at the northern word but relaxed again just as quickly,

"Make your life less worthless, Snow. Protect my family. Die in their place if needs be."

Jon looked down at the dying woman for a moment before standing up. He stared into the deep glare Lady Stark was giving him. His own eyes narrowed slightly,

"I will always protect my family – no matter what. I will do it with or without your blessing Lady Stark." He explained before glancing at his father, "May I leave now father?"

Eddard Stark was stuck between being angry at his bastard son and angry at his dying wife for bringing up such topics with a young boy. In the end he nodded and Jon made to leave.

"Die instead of my boy Snow! Let the Gods take you before they take my children!"

Jon stopped in the doorway for a second, trying to fight back the tears in his eyes. Why he was even crying, he wondered. Catelyn Stark had always hated him and he had always known it. Maybe it was the simple, but horrible, request.

Or maybe it was because he could already feel in himself that he would honour her request without a second thought if it would save one of his siblings. After all, they were his family, he had his duty to protect them and had sworn to his father, his honourable father, that he would always protect them. He glanced back at Lady Stark,

"I will protect my family Lady Stark." He assured her, noting how she seethed even in her last few hours at the fact he had acknowledged the blood ties she fought so hard to ignore, "Family. Duty. Honour. Good night Lady Stark."


	3. Chapter 3

**Note on the ages - Roughly following the example of the TV show with the ages, with Robb and Jon being 20 years old in 297AC, the year the first season begins.**

 **Note on updates - I shall update again in a week's time, hopefully in bulk as I have done here.**

* * *

Ice and Salt

Jon Snow and Robb Stark were both now of the age of fifteen.

They were no longer boys but they were yet to be considered men by many. They were still Green Boys to the men of the North and would be until they had proven themselves to be as strong as the Northern soil and as deadly as the ice and snow. Despite this, they had been tasked with a journey by their father.

It was more for Robb's benefit than for Jon's but the two of them knew that they would both learn things on their journey.

Eddard Stark had sent them, Theon, and a group of ten Winterfell soldiers out into the North. Their mission was to visit each of the most notable Houses in the North. Robb was to know the men and women he would have dominion over once their father died and was to see if any of their daughters would catch his eye. On top of that, they would see to the loyalty of their father's vassal lords and check the condition of their keeps and castles – to see where the North needed to be strengthened and where it prospered.

Jon had managed to gain permission to go along with Robb simply because it was impossible to separate Jon from Robb's side. As the years passed, Jon and Robb grew stronger together but Jon always put Robb's own needs and safety ahead of his own. Excelling in the use of the blade and the axe in the training yard, Jon poured his energies into becoming a warrior strong enough to defend his family from any attacker.

Robb trained with the sword – Jon trained with the sword.

Robb trained with the Maester to master his numbers – Jon trained with the axe.

Robb learned all he would need to become Warden of the North after their father's death – Jon learned all he would need to defend his family from any attackers. Robb was attentive to his studies but Jon threw himself into his duty with every fibre of his being. While Robb was good in the training yard, Jon was a master in waiting, needing only to prove that he could turn his skill in practice into skill in true battle.

Along the roads of the North they hadn't had to face combat though and for that Jon was thankful. They had already been travelling for many months now – having travelled first to the Neck to explore the south of the North and then looping back up, through White Harbour, the lands of House Hornwood, the Dreadfort and Karhold. From there they had travelled further North still, visiting the Last Hearth of the Umbers, meeting with the Northern clans and travelling through the Ironwood Forests of the Foresters and arriving at Deepwood Motte of the House Glover.

Traveling for months would have caused frayed nerves and heightened tempers amongst most young men but Jon and Robb were too alike in their hearts to truly get angry at each other. Theon had gotten on the nerves of every man in the little company but that was to be expected when the older boy all but demanded that they visited every brothel they came across. Robb had been tempted into a few but Jon had steered clear of them.

And of Theon when at all possible.

Even now, as they dismounted from their horses, Jon tried to avoid the cocky shit that was Theon Greyjoy. He was regaling the soldiers, and a disinterested Robb, with a story about a whore back in White Harbour he swore had been from the Free Cities. Jon had never been interested in the story and Robb had lost interest in it as well after the tenth time the Greyjoy had decided to tell it. If Jon's count was right then Theon was wrapping up his twentieth rendition of the story. Collecting his belongings from his saddle bags, Jon rolled his eyes,

"This whore's tits seem to get bigger every time you spin this yarn Theon." He couldn't help but call out, much to the amusement of the soldiers, "If we believe you then this woman was little more than two tits with a head."

The soldiers laughed and Robb snorted in amusement while Theon coloured in embarrassment. Theon and Jon had never gotten along but that was fine by Jon – Theon Greyjoy was no family of his and he would never forget that. Just as Theon would never forget one thing about Jon,

"No one asked you Snow." He hissed back, putting extra emphasis of his last name, "I doubt you'd know what to do what any shape or size of tits. You avoid women like their poisonous – you a sword swallower Snow?"

Of course. This was how their conversations always went. Jon would pull Theon up on his whoring ways or his undeserved sense of entitlement and Theon would reply with a jab at his nature as a bastard and insinuate he was more into the company of men than women. Today it seemed Theon was going to avoid being subtle, lest his meaning not be abundantly clear. Jon rolled his eyes,

"Forgive me for not feeling the need to pay a whore to pretend to find pleasure in my company." He japed back at Theon, "Besides Greyjoy… you're the one who looks after his hair like some princess."

More laughter from the soldiers but Theon chose not to push the fight anymore. Although Theon was eighteen, he was still unable to beat Jon in the training yard and had been unable to do so since Jon had turned twelve. The gap between their levels of skill had only grown as they had aged. Jon would freely admit that he would never be able to lose an arrow with the same precision and power as Theon though.

Just never to the Greyjoy's face – his ego was inflated enough as it was.

The horses of the company were led away by stable hands as Jon and the rest of the company boarded the traders' boat bound for Bear Island. The House Mormont was the last of the major houses they were to visit this far north. After their visit here they would head back down the coast to see the loyal House Tallhart and the men of Barrowton before finally heading home to Winterfell. A place Jon had been missing keenly for the better part of three months now.

The journey across the Bay of Ice was rather short and Jon spent it in conversation with Robb about House Mormont. It wouldn't do for the heir of House Stark to be lacking in knowledge of one of his most loyal houses,

"House Mormont. House words – Here we stand." Robb rattled off as Jon nodded in agreement while nibbling on some miscellaneous meat they had bought at the docks, "Famous in the North for their loyalty to House Stark and training their women to fight as warriors. Current head of House… Jeor Mormont, the Old Bear."

Jon shook his head as he looked over the bow at the rapidly approaching coastline,

"Jeor Mormont took the Black the year we left Winterfell, father received a raven about it." He advised before adding, "Jorah Mormont commands House Mormont – the Young Bear."

Jon reflected that it wouldn't be too much longer before people started to give his siblings little nicknames like that. Right now the people of the North saw them all as children still so they were collectively known as the "Wolf Cubs" due to their House sigil. But it would take very little for Robb and himself to gain nicknames – they wouldn't be green boys forever and when they were accepted as men by the people of the North they would gain their own nicknames suited to them. There were betting pools about which nicknames would prove to be the most popular for Robb.

Robb groaned at the correction and Jon tried not to smile. He didn't have to focus so much on these things – he was the Bastard of Winterfell, not the heir. He was expected to be a semi-capable warrior and nothing else. Of course he hoped he would be classed far above simply 'semi-capable' when he got a chance to prove his skill on the battlefield. Not that he was aching for a war at all – their father had told them often of the horrors of war and Jon wasn't rushing to experience it for himself.

The little ship was approaching Bear Island at some speed but it took them a little bit to actually recognise that there was a much longer, slimmer, boat already stopped as close to the shore as the low hull would allow. Theon was easily able to identify it,

"Ironborn raiding party!"

As one, Jon and Robb surged to their feet, rushing to fix their armour to themselves as their boat made for the shore. The guardsmen did the same, only Theon chose to remain in the light leathers of his travelling clothes – likely because much else would limit his use with the bow. Both Jon and Robb chose to only strap themselves into chainmail, knowing that any other type of armour would be far too heavy and cumbersome to be of any use against the agile Ironborn. Jon tested the edge of the sword strapped to his waist before picking up an axe the party had used for cutting down small trees for firewood while on the road. The axe at his left hip and his sword at the right, Jon clutched to the bow of the ship as it continued onwards towards the shore.

The Ironborn raiding ship was one of their traditional longboats which meant, as far as Jon could recall, it could hold between 35 and 50 Ironborn. He didn't have a clue as to how many this particular ship would be holding. One of the guards moved closer to Robb,

"My lord…" there was a hesitation in the man's voice that Jon didn't like the sound of, "We should land further up the coast. The Mormont warriors should be able to repel this Ironborn threat by themselves – and you'll be safer if we land further up the coast."

Jon, personally, wanted to punch the man in the face. What kind of Lord would Robb be if he refused to fight for his people? It didn't matter if the Mormonts would be able to repel them by themselves – Robb was here and he had fighting men with him. He would one day be their liege lord – the one that House Mormont would look to for protection from threats that were beyond them. How would they ever trust him to do that when he turned away from them in their time of need?

Thankfully, Jon didn't need to speak up,

"I am to be their Lord one day – I won't leave them to the mercy of these animals." He declared strongly, all of them choosing to ignore the ugly scowl that Theon sported at these words, "Doubtlessly they are in battle with the Mormonts from the coast already – we will attack their exposed back and trap them between ourselves and the Mormonts. We will crush these raiders and send their bodies to meet their Drowned God!"

The soldiers of Winterfell with them cheered in agreement and the small contingent of sailors roared in agreement as the captain steered them towards their foe. Jon didn't cheer but he made note that Theon looked very conflicted about the whole thing. He looked like he had drunk some off milk to be honest – as if condemning the actions of the raiders was something disgusting to him. Theon looked up and caught his eye. Jon spat on the deck of the boat between them and turned his attention back to the front of the ship.

They were approaching the Ironborn longboat now and were able to see that a small company of the raiders had stayed on board. Arrows from the Ironborn began to rain down on them but there were not enough raiders left aboard to move the ship itself. Jon ducked down, narrowly avoiding being hit by a few arrows that had been sent his way. He drew his sword and gripped it tighter than he ever had before as the distance between the two ships shrunk with every moment.

Jon glanced at Robb, who was crouched beside him.

His brother had his own steel bared and was taking several deep breaths. He looked nervous but Jon wasn't arrogant enough to believe that the same expression wasn't also on his face. There was a sinking feeling in his stomach but Jon was holding it together just as well as Robb was. Reaching over, Jon squeezed his brother's shoulder, getting his attention. He forced himself to grin, knowing that the expression probably looked half mad in the current situation,

"Hey!" he shouted over the sounds of arrows hitting the deck behind them, "Come on Stark! You can't be known as the Wolf-Who-Pissed-Himself!"

There was a second where Robb looked at him like he was mad before he started laughing. Seeing his own brother laughing set Jon off. It was nervous laughter – the jape hadn't actually been funny to be honest. But it was laughter none the less and it was louder than they realised. Perhaps their laughter in the face of battle goaded their men or scared the Ironborn – Jon would never know. All he knew was the massive shake the ship gave as its bow crashed into the hull of the Ironborn's longboat.

Robb tried to be the first to rise but Jon pushed him down and threw himself up to his feet first instead – no use risking the heir first when they had a spare on hand.

Thankfully Jon wasn't hit with arrows either – it appeared that the Ironborn were still trying to get their feet back under them from the force of the collision. The raider's ship was slightly lower than their own so Jon could look down on the ten Ironborn raiders left. A quick glance noted that there was a bundle of furs in the far corner of the ship being guarded by a massive man with grey-white hair and a vicious-looking scar across his lips.

Jon took all of these details in as quickly as he could before he charged, recklessly throwing himself off the high ground down at one of the raiders,

"For Winterfell!"

His sword was pointed down and gravity helped him here. The steel dove straight into the raider he landed on, a young man who hadn't managed to actually stand back up before Jon landed on his chest. The sword stabbed into the man's throat and Jon saw his eyes widen before growing darker with every squirt of blood from the wound. In any other situation, Jon would have frozen up, but right now he couldn't afford to stop moving – Robb had jumped onto the ship after him. His brother was already clashing blades with a raider and their soldiers had yet to actually make it onto the longboat yet.

He couldn't let Robb fight alone.

Tearing his sword from the downed foe's throat, he slashed upwards and to the side, bashing the sword of a sloppily attacking raider out of the way. His other hand gripped the axe and swung before he had even fully pulled his sword back – the axe head bit into the man's unarmoured stomach and his screamed in agony until Jon's sword stabbed downwards through the top of his shoulder. No doubt he had impaled the man's heart for he went still before the sword was fully inside him.

Kicking the dead man's weight off of his sword, Jon hastily managed to use his bloodied sword to block a strong, two-handed, downward strike from another Ironborn. The force of the blow brought Jon to his knees and the raider raised his blade to attack again when Jon's axe slashed out, cutting the tendons of the raider's right leg. With a startled cry, the raider fell to the deck, clutching at his now uselessly lower leg. Jon rushed forwards on his hands and knees, pinning the raider to the deck with his knees before smashing the man's face in with his small axe.

Blood splattered his face, hot and wet, and Jon raised the axe again before smashing it back down, pulping the man's face for good measure.

Staggering to his feet, Jon looked around frantically. His personal fight had blinded him to the overall battle, just as his father and the Master-at-Arms had warned him would happen when in battle. Tunnel-vision was good for when you were fighting opponents one at a time but when the battle was all around you, you needed to keep eyes on your immediate enemy and any of the mass around you that could take advantage of any distractions. He hadn't really paid too much attention to the advice at the time but he would make sure he always checked in the future.

Thankfully, it appeared that the battle was won.

The fearsome raider he had noted at the beginning of the boarding was the only Ironborn left alive (Theon, unfortunately, not included amongst the dead) and he was holding a dagger to the bundle of furs, which Jon was now able to see was actually a young girl. She had dark brown hair and pale white skin – very Northern features indeed. Robb and his soldiers had the raider surrounded but it seemed the girl was someone important, because none of them had risked attacking yet. Jon made his way to his brother's side as the raider growled at them,

"Fuckin' green-landers!" he roared, dagger drawing a single drop of blood from the girl's neck, "This here cunt is Alysane Fuckin' Mormont! Take a step and I'll gut her like a fucking fish!"

Uncertainty rippled through the soldiers and Jon noted how Robb narrowed his eyes and tightened his grip on his bloodied sword. Seeing the hesitation, Jon decided that he needed to act. If this went badly then it was the Bastard of Winterfell's fault, not Robb Stark's. And if it went well then it would reflect well on Robb for bringing him in the first place. Jon threw his axe to the deck between the Northmen and the lone raider. He spat on the deck,

"And what about the craven in front of me? Does he have a name?" he sneered as he stepped away from Robb, closer to the Ironborn, "Or does your tongue only work when you're threatening little girls?"

There was a stunned silence for a moment. Jon had done enough homework on the Ironborn to know that throwing your axe at the feet of a raider was a challenge. He was hoping the man was proud so he would accept the challenge. The silence stretched for a few moments longer before the raider spoke again,

"Who the fuck do you think you are?!" he growled, "A fuckin' Greenlander! And a green boy cunt no less! You know who the fuck I am boy?!"

Jon gripped his sword, twirling it in his hand in a display of showmanship that his father would have scolded him for. Thankfully it was only for the purpose of riling the Ironborn up further. He stopped the twirl, pointing the blade at the large raider,

"I'm Jon Snow – Bastard of Eddard Stark." He narrowed his eyes, "I've killed Ironborn today… You afraid I might add you to that list? Killed by a green boy… your wet god would frown on that wouldn't he?"

Smaller rowboats were making their way towards the longboat from the shore and everyone, the raider included, could see the Mormont sigil on the armour. It seemed the Mormonts had already subdued the last of their foes on the shore and all that was left was this lone raider. The Ironborn seemed to realise this as well – he wavered for a moment before scowling,

"I won't leave this fuckin' boat alive." He growled, none of the survivors able (or willing) to dispute the statement, "But Dagmer Cleftjaw won't die on his knees in some fuckin' execution! So I accept your challenge boy! I'll split your fucking skull open and any other who thinks he can take my head so easily!"

Somehow, Jon thought he should know the name. But he didn't care right now. He was feeling the effort from his previous fights now, the battle-rush beginning to quieten down at the worst possible time. He took a steadying breath and glanced at Robb out of the corner of his eye. His older brother was, understandably, upset but there was nothing else for it. This way, at least, the raider didn't slash the Mormont girl's throat out of spite,

"For Winterfell, Robb."

Battle cry for the Starks since the time of Bran the Builder and fitting as potential last words as far as Jon was concerned. Wouldn't do to say anything soppy when he had every intention of winning after all. Stepping closer to Dagmer as the other Northmen took several steps back, Jon fell into a ready stance as the raider captain drew his own sword. Without bothering with a stance, Dagmer attacked with a savage downward slash. Thankfully, Jon was able to deflect the blade with his own so he didn't have the full force of the attack jarring his sword arm. With his opponent's sword bashed to the side, he slashed up with as much speed as he could put behind his blade.

Dagmer ducked backwards slightly, letting the edge miss him by inches before bringing his own sword back round for a side swipe this time. The point of his sword scraped against Jon's chainmail but didn't manage to pierce it. Jon grunted as he opted to ram his opponent in the throat with the pommel of his sword, rather than wasting more time on a swing or bringing it back round for a stab. The pommel hit the old raider right in the centre of his throat and he choked as he took an instinctive step backwards.

What happened next was something neither party saw coming. When people asked him about this fight in the future Jon himself was certain he would be just as surprised in the retelling as he was when he caused it the first time. Dagmer Cleftjaw, choking from the attack to the throat, stepped back in an instinctive defensive movement… and tripped on a mixture of water and blood on the wooden deck.

An Ironborn – tripping on water on the deck of his own ship. Jon didn't know much about the culture of the raiders, above what he had already shown, but he had to imagine that this was something Dagmer would be ridiculed for rather harshly. He seemed to think so any way, for he tried to surge back up to his feet the same second his back hit the deck.

Jon panicked a little, almost missing his chance to capitalise of his opponent's misfortune. He thrust his sword forwards with all his might and skewered the raider captain through the right eye and back out the man's skull. Immediately the Ironborn man stiffened but only for the space of a single second – after that he slumped to the deck again, Jon's sword still firmly embedded in his skull.

Taking a deep breath, Jon couldn't help but look down at his handiwork. The man's eye was oozing out of its socket as a sort of white puss, blood mixing with it as he drenched his sword and flowed down the sides of the man's face. Unable to hold it back as he had done with his first kill, Jon felt his stomach rebelling against him. Rushing to the edge of the longboat, Jon threw up over the side of the boat into the sea.

His recent meal now floating away on the tides, Jon wiped his mouth against his woollen sleeves as he stood back up. There was cheering from the company that had accompanied himself and Robb from Winterfell but he ignored it for a moment, moving over to where a crying Alysane was being held closely by a woman slightly older than Jon wearing a bloodied Mormont surcoat and mail, a massive mace hanging by her side.

Jorah Mormont took a few steps closer, having already spoken to Robb it seemed. Jon bowed his head respectfully, even though he still felt like he was going to be sick and his sword arm seemed to be shaking beyond his control. Jorah Mormont was a stern looking man and Northern to the core – Jon wouldn't have been surprised if there was ice in his veins with the look he gave the corpse of the raider captain. The same gaze turned to Jon and held him for a moment,

"Kneel down Jon Snow."

Surprised at the request, Jon shot Robb a questioning look. His older brother gave him a little grin before nodding. Taking his cue from his brother, Jon knelt down on the deck in front of Jorah Mormont. It was only when he felt Jorah's blade tapping his right shoulder when he remembered that Jorah Mormont was not only Lord of Bear Island but also a knight – knighted by King Robert himself after the siege of Pyke during the short-lived Greyjoy rebellion years ago.

And any knight could bestow a knighthood.

"Jon Snow, you faced an enemy with many more years' experience than yourself without fear. I charge you to carry that same courage with you for the rest of your days."

The sword moved to the left shoulder and Jon's heart could likely be heard beating against his chainmail,

"Follow your father's example young Snow – I charge you to be just."

Back to the right,

"You fought for young Alysane's life without hesitation. I charge you to defend the young and the innocent."

The left,

"I charge you to protect all women in need."

The sword left his shoulder as Jorah rested its point on the deck in front of Jon's still bowed head. There was a moment's silence,

"You knelt a brave man of the North, Jon Snow. Rise now, as a knight."


	4. Chapter 4

Ser Snow

Jon hadn't done what he had done for any kind of reward – he had fought the Ironborn because they were invading The North. They were rapists and murders who plied their 'trade' within the realm of his father, the lands that his family was sworn to protect. The people of The North looked to the Starks for justice and protection and Jon, despite knowing he would never be a Stark, didn't want to ever stand by as the people his family were sworn to protect were endangered.

He had fought the Ironborn captain in the way he had because the man was a threat that needed to be taken care of and he knew enough about Ironborn pride from Theon to know that making such a blatant challenge was sure to anger the man. He had saved the girl because she was someone of The North – it honestly wouldn't have mattered to himself if the girl had been the daughter of a fletcher or a woodsman. She was of the North and in that moment, Jon was fighting to protect the North from its enemies.

But, of course, she hadn't been someone unimportant. She was a member of the House of Mormont and because of that he was now sat at the top table in the main hall of Mormont Keep. He was sat to the right of the current head of House Mormont, Ser Jorah. For the first time he had pride of place at a Lord's table, not his brother Robb. Of course, Robb was seated the other side of Jorah. Even though Jon was hero of the hour, Robb was the heir of the North and would one day be the liege lord of every person in the hall.

Jon wasn't exactly comfortable with where he was sitting however.

Give him a sword and he would fight anyone who could hold a blade against him, both in combat and in practice. Give him an axe and he'd do the same. But ask him to sit amongst the lords and ladies, the Sers and the ladies in waiting? He just didn't know what to do with himself. Certainly, he had eaten with his Lord father but that was different – there hadn't been any expectations placed on him when he was dining with his family.

But up here?

Jon could feel the weight of the stares as if they were a coat of chainmail. Those on the smaller tables looked up at him and those along the head table looked as well. They were all watching him, analysing him. They wanted to see what kind of man he was and what kind of knight he would make – they knew he had combat skill but that wasn't what made a knight. A knight was supposed to be someone with honour, wisdom and grace. He was now a knight and suddenly he wasn't expected to sit and eat with the guards, suddenly he was expected to show a grace that nobles had, that the southerners would expect when seeing him.

He wasn't ignorant when it came to the kind of behaviour he would have to show when under scrutiny like this – his father was Lord Paramount of the North after all. He knew how he should act but the simple fact was that many people, himself included, had never thought he would ever actually have need of such lessons. Apparently they had all been wrong however – it seemed as though he was going to have to do his best to be the very image of a virtuous knight.

With that in mind he ate slowly, drank little and conversed with Jorah and Maege Mormont about Bear Island. Thankfully, Robb was also a part of this conversation so it wasn't quite as hard on him as it possibly could be. The dining part of the small feast was winding down now and the band was beginning to play. Those of the lower tables were now drinking more, singing along and dancing their cares away. He longed to be down there with them but he would just have to sit here and continue to behave himself in a manner befitting a knight.

Of course when Dacey Mormont asked him to dance with her, he took her up on the offer quickly. The discussion with Jorah had been about whether or not his lord father would be granting him a small keep now that he was a knight. Honestly, Jon would be happy if he never left Winterfell but he knew that if his father or brother needed him to hold a holdfast he would do his best to do so. But willingness didn't mean he wanted to discuss it now.

Hence the speedy acceptance of Dacey's offer.

Dacey Mormont was only a year or two older than Jon and Robb but she already looked to be a woman fully grown, whereas the last hints of boyhood still clung stubbornly to the brothers. She had been clan in blood-coated armour last he had seen her but hours later she was dressed in a tight green dress that drew Jon's attention to the fact that Dacey's hands weren't the only part of her that seemed larger than any woman he had seen before.

Honestly, they had barely begun dancing and Jon was already blushing just from being in her company. Seeing this, Dacey laughed. To Jon's pleasant surprise the sound was light, melodic. Not what you would expect from a woman who had likely practiced a battle-cry more than she had ever practiced a song. He couldn't help but give a rare smile as they danced,

"You're not what I expected Jon Snow."

He was less surprised that he was different to her expectations – he was confused as to why she had ever had an expectations about him to begin with. Sure, all Seven Kingdoms knew that the usually honourable Ned Stark had a bastard… but it wasn't like the rumours ever gave any impression as to what he would be like. To find out that the beautiful Young She-Bear of Bear Island actually had some opinion of him before meeting was something he didn't exactly know how to take,

"I don't know if that's a good thing or not Lady Dacey."

There was that laugh again. It caused more heat to rush to his cheeks and he had the sudden urge to look away, feeling rather bashful now. He swallowed thickly when she just smiled at him. Jon couldn't help how his mind wandered when he noticed how red her lips were. Being around this woman was… maddening already. The curse of boys who were becoming men, of course, was that every woman was intoxicating – especially the beautiful ones.

"Please, just Dacey. I might be a Lady but tonight I'm just another warrior happy to have defended her home."

Just a warrior defending her home.

Could it really be that simple? His mind had been struck by her words and suddenly they were all he could really think about. Before this, all his over-loaded brain could see about the Knighthood was the downsides, how he would have to change. He had never thought about how much he would be able to remain the same. He didn't have to become the very essence of a knight, he didn't have to act like the gallant heroes in the stories Sansa loved.

He could simply be a warrior defending his home.

But his home wasn't just Winterfell anymore though – travelling with Robb like this had shown him that the Starks were so much more than just the Lords of Winterfell. They were the centre of the North, almost like its beating heart. Each and every Northman was the responsibility of the House of Stark and he had sworn to his father long ago to protect his family. And his family's home wasn't Winterfell – it was the North as a whole.

He didn't honestly care if he was right in his thinking – he believed he was right. He believed that he was to protect the Starks, and to protect the North itself, their home. Just thinking about this made him smile wider. He knew what he was going to do. Because there would come a time when his family were fully grown, able to protect themselves. But even then he would still have a purpose – to defend their home.

"Well said Dacey… I feel the same. I'm a Snow after all – the North is my home. All of it."

His declaration seemed to have caught her off guard for a moment but the moment didn't last too long. She just fixed him with a bright smile and continued to dance. And continued to ignore just how out of practice Jon was with dancing as well. He would have to remember to thank her for that in the future – perhaps after he had gotten some remedial lessons from Sansa so he could have a dance where he didn't narrowly avoid crushing her toes with every step.

The atmosphere, the light buzz of alcohol and the presence of Dacey Mormont so close, meant that Jon didn't notice Theon's arrival. He was also not really able to hear the sounds of commotion, even when he was close by until Dacey gasped. The surprise of having such a woman gasping like a young girl was enough to snap Jon out of the happy little daze he had been experiencing. Turning around he was quickly able to see why Dacey had gasped and why the party seemed to have stopped in its tracks.

Robb was reeling backwards, pain obviously coming from the suddenly bloody nose he was sporting.

Theon Greyjoy was obviously in his cups, that much could be seen from where Jon was stood a fair bit away from the Ironborn. There was a dagger in one hand and Robb's blood on the other. Jon saw red in that instant. Roaring an inarticulate battle cry at the drunken Ironborn, Jon charged at him recklessly. Theon seemed to gather enough of his wits to stab at Jon… Jon was too angry to properly dodge as his trainers had instructed him. Instead he raised his left arm and the dagger punched into his lower left arm.

The pain would be unreal – later. Right now all he cared about was that Theon Greyjoy had attacked his brother. The reasons didn't matter – Robb was on the ground with a broken nose and Greyjoy was stood there with a knife.

The lack of reaction to the pain seemed to have struck Theon as a bad thing if the blind panic in his eyes was any indication. Jon didn't care though. He punched Theon right in the nose, just as Robb had been struck. The Ironborn took a few steps back, leaving the dagger lodged in Jon's arm. Not wanting to let the squid off the hook with such a wound, Jon grabbed him by the collar with his good hand, pulling the older man towards him sharply at the same time as slamming his forehead forwards, hitting Theon in the already-bleeding nose with a savage head-butt.

Theon attempted a punch of his own once he had gotten his bearings back – Jon caught the flailing fist in his own, kneeing Theon in the privates as he did so. The fist, Theon's right hand, unfurled in his hand instinctively from the pain. Jon gripped onto the first two fingers.

There was a second where the world seemed to slow down and both Theon and Jon caught each other's eye. Jon's narrowed in hate and Theon's already much the same. The moment of clarity was all Jon needed. With a savage roar, he twisted and pulled on the two fingers in his grasp. The bones broke and twisted in his grip, the fingers both broken and now twisted to face the wrong direction. Theon fell to his knees screaming and Jon silenced him, knocking the older man out with a powerful strike to the nose again.

Breathing heavily, Jon yanked the dagger from his arm, throwing the weapon carelessly to the floor as he continued to glare at the beaten form of Theon Greyjoy. Closing his eyes, he staggered backwards as the pain in his arm began to finally register. He groaned a little bit when he felt the hand land on his shoulder,

"Jon… come on Jon, let the guards take him away."

It was Robb.

Jon turned to his brother and realised he… might have over-reacted. His brother was fine. Sure, his nose was bleeding but it didn't look to be broken from what he could see. And in retaliation… he was pretty sure he had beaten Theon savagely enough that the older man would likely never draw a bowstring again.

Was it bad that he still couldn't bring himself to actually feel remorse for his actions? If not for hitting Robb, the little shit had it coming. Constantly spouting out nonsense about the 'virtues' of being an Ironborn, of their culture. They had all seen their culture up close and person earlier – their culture was attacking others for the goods they had worked hard for, for the women they had protected.

Fuck Theon Greyjoy.

He looked at Robb and got the gist of what he was trying to convey without actually having to speak to his brother. The guards were dragging Theon out and there was silence as every one of the guests just seemed to stare at him. He licked his suddenly dry lips as he looked out over the crowd. Jorah was staring at him intently but didn't seem to be angry. Neither did Dacey or anyone else. He swallowed thickly before deciding that his impulsiveness didn't seem to have caused as much anger as he would have thought.

"Er... excuse my father's ward." He asked them, speaking loudly enough for everyone in the hall to hear him, "He gets rather stupid when he's in his cups… must be an Ironborn thing."

There was a second where he thought his little jape had soured the mood before Ser Jorah Mormont, the usually collected man, snorted in amusement. This seemed to break the dam and suddenly the Mormonts and all their retainers were laughing along with their lord. Jon relaxed a little bit and Robb grinned at him, patting him on the back as a maester came forwards to lead Jon over to a nearby table.

They were intercepted by Dacey, who just grinned at him for a moment,

"Honestly Snow… will you ever get enough of beating on the Squids?"

He grinned back at her, a noticeably smaller expression than her own but big by his own standards,

"Never."

That seemed to have been the right answer because it got him a kiss on the cheek from the older woman before she left. He blushed brightly and sat down where the amused maester told him to. The festivities seemed to have gotten back into full swing now and Jon just smiled a little bit to himself as the maester tended to his wound. These people… they were so different to what he knew of those from South of the Neck.

Where a fight like that could be celebrated and then mostly forgotten – if he were a Knight of the South he imagined he would have been scolded for not challenging the Ironborn to a duel. But he wasn't a Knight of the South – he wasn't made a knight to win tourneys and glory. He was a Knight of the North. He was to protect the Starks and champion the people of the North against any enemy that threatened them – be they Wildling, Ironborn or Southerner.


	5. Chapter 5

The Pack

The journey home had been rather tense to say the least. Jon and Robb had come back from Bear Island with valuable battle experience and the goodwill of the House of Mormont. Their men had been well fed and given the best mead available - invited to a small feast to celebrate their victory. They left Bear Island happy to have made the trip and having rather fond memories of the trip in general.

The exception to this good feeling was, of course, Theon Greyjoy.

His old mentor from the Iron Islands was the captain that Jon had killed... not that Jon cared all that much how much the man had meant to Theon. The man was a raider who attacked the North - Jon would never apologise for killing him. He might have felt more remorse if Theon hadn't tried to kill him at the feast after the raid was successfully repelled. And if he hadn't struck Robb for trying to stop the attack.

Jon felt a little bit ashamed about how violently he had retaliated but didn't feel remorse for retaliating at all. Robb was still a bit sore about his nose currently thought that Theon deserved it. Of course Jon knew his brother would eventually let his temper cool and wouldn't hold any kind of grudge against Theon. If only the same could be said for Theon himself... Jon couldn't help but notice the down-right poisonous looks his father's ward was shoot him.

And the squid just hadn't stopped.

Glaring at him across the boat back from Bear Island. Glaring at him while they collected their horses again. Glaring at him as they rode. Honestly, Jon was beginning to think that Theon Greyjoy was going to be taking more interest in him than the whores from now on. He'd certainly ignored more than a few comely lasses on their journey home in favour of glaring at Jon. Not that the lasses were worse off for it he was sure - there had to be a reason why Theon had to pay whores to touch him after all. Jon had joked with the soldiers about several possible reasons and likely given Theon another reason to glare at him.

Likely another reason to try and stab him in the back later on too. Not that Jon would ever turn his back on Theon - he didn't trust the ward before the attempt on his life but now? Well now he was going to be watching the squid like a hawk, ready to cut him down if he attacked again. And maybe if the older man even looked like he was going to attack again... or maybe not. He doubted his father would appreciate it if he attacked first and then tried to beg 'self-defence'. By the same law-abiding nature, his father would be perfectly fine with him killing Theon in self-defence.

If there was one thing people knew about his father, it was that he was a just man. Of course his father was more complicated than that - it wasn't all honour and justice with Ned Stark after all. There was a lot of pride in there, protectiveness of his family and intelligence. Although some would say his father wasn't smart because he followed honour so strictly, Jon knew better. Ned Stark was The Quiet Wolf - the strategist warrior to Robert Barratheon's berserker warrior during the Rebellion. His father was Warden of the North and ruled it with precision, justice and intelligence. Honour was something he upheld but it was not the be all and end all of what it was that made up Eddard Stark.

Jon would freely admit that there was a bit of hero worship in his mind towards his father.

But either way, Jon knew he couldn't crush Theon's skull with his axe without just cause. Once he was away from the Ironborn he wouldn't feel the urge he knew. It was one of the man reasons why Jon smiled as their party entered Winterfell through the main gates, muddied and tired but so thankfully home. Jon joined Robb and Theon in trotting their horses up to the entrance to the great keep, where the Stark family was waiting to welcome them home. Eddard Stark was front and center, looking rather stoic to casual observers. But both Jon and Robb could see the glint in his eye that told the world he was happy behind the 'Lord Face' he wore in public.

The small party dismounted and Robb and Jon walked closer to their family while Theon held back. Jon couldn't help but smile at his younger siblings. Sansa seemed to have grown taller still, looking closer to a woman flowered than the young girl of onl 13 years. She was the perfect picture of manners, as always when in public, and quickly looking the part of Lady of the house. She had grown up being told by the septa she would need to take her mother's place - Jon hated how the septa had pushed Sansa into the role but she did seem to enjoy it so he couldn't be too angry. He just wished she could have had a few more years of childhood before her lessons forced her to grow up.

Arya... well Arya had exactly the opposite problem. Arya didn't listen to the septa at all and seemed more than happy to run around, attempting to be a knight. She didn't seem capable of sitting still or behaving but Jon knew she was likely only acting out. She would grow out of it. Without a female role model to temper her personality with practicality, Arya was free to skip lessons with the Septa and learn archery and riding. Their father seemed to allow these things and whenever Robb or Jon asked it was always explained that Eddard Stark saw his sister in Arya... and if Rickard Stark, their grandfather, had been unable to tame his wild daughter, Eddard was not going to try.

The same could not be said for Bran Stark.

Once upon a time, Bran would have climbed the walls of Winterfell freely. But whereas Eddard Stark had been unable/unwilling to reign in Arya, he was more than willing to stop Bran's 'adventures'. Arya could be wilful but one wrong move on Bran's part would end with his death or his maiming. Bran... had yet to forgive their father for banning him from climbing. Much worse, to Bran, was that their father had declared that any person who saw Bran climbing and didn't either stop him or call for the guards, would spend a night in a cell. Bran seemed to be losing some of his anger towards their father though but it would likely be a long time before the ten year old was happy with their father again.

And Rickon... well Rickon was seven. The kid was all energy, happiness and enthusiasm, wrapped up in ignorance and childish innocence. The absolute typical picture of a seven year old boy, honestly. He seemed to prove this when he dashed across the short distance between them to wrap his arms around Jon's waist in a tight hug. He laughed lightly as he ruffled his youngest brother's hair. He looked up at his father, just as Robb and the other Stark children did. Eddard looked at them for a moment before letting a tiny sigh escape, smiling faintly and nodding to them.

Bran and Arya both charged over to them, Arya being caught in a big hug by Robb and Bran joining Rickon in holding tightly onto Jon. Sansa smiled at them but her decorum was far too high for her to show such open affection - not like their siblings. Jon tried to make sense of the dozens of questions that Bran and Rickon were shooting at him but they were talking over each other so quickly it was all just noise to him. He laughed and knelt down to hug both of his younger brothers tightly.

He wasn't too proud to admit that he had missed them.

Eddard took a few steps forwards. The Stark children could all tell that their father was about to speak, they all fell silent. Eddard Stark was a kind father but he still had the air about him that led people to obey him in anything he asked of them. The older man smiled gently, clapping Robb on the shoulder,

"Welcome home son." he greeted his heir, wrapping the young man in a tight hug before turning to Jon. There was a barely noticeable pause before he pulled Jon into a similar embrace, "Welcome back, Jon. We've missed you both."

He pulled back from the embrace before pausing,

"We shall save this full reunion for dinner." he declared, silencing protests from Arya and Bran with a stern look, "Jon, Robb... come with me. I must speak to you in my study."

Jon didn't have good memories of his father's study. He was only ever taken to the study when he was to be scolded or told some unpleasant news. Last time he had been in the study it was to answer to his father for duelling with a young guardsman with real steel swords. He shared a glance with Robb. His brother looked uncertain as well - obviously he remembered the last time he had been taken to the study. Jon would be the first to admit that he'd rather have been taken into the study to be told off for visiting a brothel, like Robb had, than 'endangering life and limb' as he had.

Jon broke free of his little brothers, waving to them as Robb joined him, having somehow pried Arya off of him. The two eldest sons of Eddard Stark quickly caught up with their father, falling into step behind him and easily keeping pace. The three Stark men were silent as they strode through the warm halls of Winterfell's main keep. After riding all day, the warmth of the halls were greatly appreciated by Jon and Robb. Sooner than they would have liked they reached the only cold room within the main keep - Lord Stark's Study.

Jon imagined that the room was kept cold on purpose - Lord Stark wouldn't be cold because he was used to it but any visitors would shiver and shake from the cold in front of him. And you were less likely to fall asleep doing the tedious management of the North when you were too cold to get comfortable. Either way, it didn't really work on Jon and Robb. They were used to the cold more than the warm so they didn't shiver when they stood in front of Eddard's desk. And there was no chance of them falling asleep when their lord father sat behind the desk. There was silence for a moment before their father gestured to the two seats in front of the desk,

"Sit." he bade them, waiting until they were sat down before continuing, "I've received ravens from each of the holds you visited. Both from the Lords and from you, Robb. I have the reports. I have the facts. Now... I want what you gut feelings tell you about them."

Another brief bit of silence before Robb spoke,

"White Harbour is growing well - we may need to co-ordinate the building of another small town though." he admitted with a frown, "There's some tension between the smallfolk who believe in the Old Gods and those who hold the New."

Religious unrest was something that only really stirred up in White Harbour and the surrounding towns but it was becoming more noticeable in recent years. And since the two faiths were almost designed to conflict... there was a lot of tension. And no one wanted it to get anywhere close to boiling point. The Manderlays had done a good job of trying to settle them but it seemed that, despite their best efforts, there was some unrest. Jon nodded in agreement,

"I would agree father." he admitted, "I think those of the Old Gods need a separate town at this point... and we might be able to make it into a port. There's a lot in that area already but we could always do with more right?"

Eddard hummed and made a note of the suggestion. Jon was always rather envious of how his father was able to block emotion during business. Of course when he'd once asked about it, Jon realised he'd rather not get the ability himself. Apparently it was the result of the Rebellion - where his father had to accept that killing would become habit to him. Jon was a fighter by choice but his father had done a good job to instil the belief that almost anything was preferable to war.

"Good observations - maester Luwin suggested as much himself upon your raven's arrival." Eddard admitted before smiling faintly, "The others were simple enough. Now... what's this I hear about my sons fighting off Ironborn raiders by boarding their ship? Or you could explain why one of said sons challenged the captain, one Dagmar Cleftjaw, to single combat? No? How about the knighthood? Maybe... maybe you'd like to explain to me why my ward was beaten blue and will never draw a bow again?"

Ah. It was THAT smile - the smile that Eddard showed when he was actually rather angry about something but didn't want to express that anger so openly. Jon swallowed thickly and tried to speak first but Robb, brave as he was, spoke first,

"We couldn't let the raiders get away with what they were doing." he argued easily, "We are both Starks of Winterfell... I am heir to the North. How could we just sit by and let them get away with what they'd done? The people would call us craven. And, more important, we would have failed in our duty to protect the North. I, for one, apologise for nothing Father."

There was a short silence before Eddard nodded at Robb's words, seeming to accept them as a reasonable answer. Robb's shoulders sagged noticeably in relief but Jon found himself unable to relax as he was now the centre of his father's attention,

"The captain... he had a young girl captive. He would have killed her if we charged him so... I appealed to his nature and challenged him." Jon admitted, not comfortable with his father's piercing gaze. It felt like every word he uttered was being scrutinised by his father, "The knighthood wasn't my idea but I admit I'm rather glad I got it. As for Theon..."

Here Jon's gaze darkened and Robb seemed to scowl a little bit deeper as well. Eddard reacted with merely a move of his hand to urge Jon to continue,

"He attacked me at a dance in Mormont Hall. His plan was to stab me in the back... apparently Cleftjaw was his mentor before the rebellion." he explained, "But he struck Robb first. I attacked him and beat him."

There was a moment of silence before Jon added,

"I don't regret it."

The silence stretched on and Jon was beginning to think his father was thinking of a punishment before he surprised both of his sons by laughing. Not a chuckle or a small laugh but a big, deep, laugh. Jon hadn't heard him laugh like that since the last time the GreatJon had convinced his father to have a drinking contest during a feast. Eddard smiled widely at his sons,

"The wolf blood is strong in you boys. You've both got shades of me and your uncle Brandon in you." he assured them, his smile lessening slightly when he mentioned his deceased brother, "You defended our pack - the people of the North and your brother. I'm proud of you two. Of course the knighthood has reached the ears of others... Ser Jorah sent news of the first man he had knighted to the man who knighted him, by raven."

But Ser Jorah Mormont was knighted by... King Robert. Jon suddenly felt a little bit unsteady and was glad his father had told them to sit down before continuing. Eddard seemed to have expected the reaction but something seemed to be bothering him,

"The King has invited myself, my heir and my knighted son, to join him at a tourney." his grimace became more pronounced "It is to be the biggest in recent memory... and take place at Harrenhall."


	6. Chapter 6

The Drunken Stag

Jon was riding just behind his brothers and their father as they came closer to Harrenhall. He was riding to the side of Sansa and Jayne, keeping pace with them in order to better keep an eye on them. Jayne had been giggling and whispering to Sansa ever since they'd gotten closer to the tournament ground and started seeing knights and lords from the rest of the realm.

He noticed how Jayne was trying, with some success, to draw Sansa's attention to some of the prettier knights. Their father had subtly suggested that he ride with them to dissuade any 'adventurous' knights from trying to get close to the 'Lady Wolf of the North'. Honestly, they had been travelling down at a steady pace and news of their imminent arrival had still preceded them somehow. Each of them had their own nickname by the time they had reached the outlying tents.

Sansa was "Lady Wolf of the North".

Bran was "The Cub".

Robb was "The Young Wolf".

And Jon? Well Jon's was one that he wasn't all that opposed to at the moment. "The Wolf Knight" had something of a ring to it. He wouldn't mind having that be his unofficial title amongst the other knights of Westeros. It seemed that most knights didn't seem happy to test how he had gotten such a name either, as many who seemed intent on riding alongside Sansa seemed to think better of it when they saw him riding beside her.

Helped that Jayne had been chatting loudly to him about how fun it must be to be a 'Wolf Knight'. As the southern knights ran with tails between their legs, Jon had to admit that it was a lot more fun than he would have originally thought. Of course it would no doubt have the opposite effect soon enough - knights brave enough would want to take him down because he already had a name for himself and they desperately needed to make a name for themselves.

No doubt by beating him they hoped to be 'the wolf slayer' or some such.

He'd been at the edge of the Tournament for less than a day and already he was deciding he wasn't a fan of the soutern knights. They all seemed to be very interested in the personal glory they could achieve here today. His vows might have been slightly different but he still didn't think there was a part of the vows of knighthood that encouraged you to be a glory hound. But he was still happy to give the tournament a chance - his father had assured him that, despite bad memories, the tournament at Harrenhall had been a lot of fun.

Jon would believe that when he saw it.

He was beginning to regret his father's decision to leave Arya and Rickon at Winterfell but not quite. His father had explained it was due to her similarities to their aunt Lyanna. The thinking was that Robert Baratheon might be alright with making a Tournament at Harrenhall but he was incredibly unlikely to find it amusing that there was a 'younger Lyanna' at the event. His father believed it might be a bit too much for the King who had loved Lyanna so much.

Jon would have loved to hear her tearing into the southern knights but he supposed she probably would have gotten herself into all kinds of trouble. The South took less kindly to wild-women than the North did - and the North mainly accepted them because the Mormont women would club them to death if they ever dreamt of forcing all women to be 'proper ladies'.

Of course thinking of the Mormont women brought the memories of Dacey to mind and Jon was unable to stop the light reddening of his cheeks. Unfortunately for Jon, he was travelling with Jayne Poole, who immediately noticed his was blushing,

"Gods! Ser Jon Snow is blushing!" she japed, getting a small giggle from Sansa, "I wonder which of the Southern Ladies has caught his eye?"

The two girls giggled to themselves, Sansa noticeably more reserved than Jayne but enjoying herself none the less. Jon's cheek were still red but he managed to get his own jape back,

"I thought you were only keeping your eyes on knights who were... how you put it...?" he smirked, "Suitably handsome and dashing? Does that mean you find me so Jayne?"

Sansa's giggling continued but Jayne blushed red and suddenly found the conversation too troublesome to continue. He shared a grin with Sansa over this as Jayne frantically tried to change the subject to something that wouldn't cause her further embarrassment,

"I wonder if we'll get to see the King up close!" she asked, far louder than strictly necessary but it worked to grab the attention of Jon and Sansa again, "I mean... your lord father is said to be the King's greatest friend right? Surely his party would be called before the King and his entourage to be greeted?"

That was the custom in the North - the receiving Lord had no excuse for not personally meeting with their guests. To avoid the meeting was to deliberately slight the arriving Lord... and when that Lord was someone like Eddard Stark, that slight was huge. Jon shrugged a little bit,

"I don't know if we'll see him... I don't think the South keep the same customs."

Sansa shook her head a little bit,

"No, the South do not share the custom." she admitted with a small frown, "The King is allowed to leave you waiting for as long as he likes, regardless of who you are. It seems a tad... well it seems to lack common curtesy to me, let alone respect."

She was right - of course. His sister always did have the book-smarts of the family. She was the one the Septa praised from dawn until dusk as the perfect learned lady. She was of the North but she had the grace and the intellect that would put all of these Southern women to shame, he was sure. His smile grew,

"If you have any questions at all, just raise them to Sansa. She's the smartest person in the North!" he praised her, causing Jayne to giggle as Sansa blushed, "And now that we're here, she's no doubt the smartest woman in the South as well. Wouldn't surprise me if you were crowned the Queen of love and beauty!"

Jon almost missed his father, a little bit ahead of them, flinch visibly at this. He knew it was likely because the last time a Stark woman was crowned as such... it took less than a year for the country to be engulfed in a war that shook the country to its foundations, killed thousands and led to the death of the she-wolf as well. He had only made the jape because he had been certain his father was out of earshot - apparently his father had better hearing than he expected. He continued to smile along with Jayne and Sansa, trying not to draw attention to his father's discomfort.

As they were nearing the grander tents around the tournament grounds, an older knight, dressed in the white of the Kingsguard, came trotting to them, flanked by a dozen riders in red armour. Sansa might have recognised them by their crests, Jon recognised them by their armour. They were Lannister men - no doubt part of the Queen's own guard. Seeing as the Kingsguard had been less than useful in the defence of the last Queen, he could understand why she would surround herself with men loyal to her family only. The older knight though, was someone that everyone in the Stark party recognised.

"Hail Ser Barristen." Eddard Stark greeted, their party grinding to a halt as the Kingsguard and the Lannister men did the same, "And what to what do I owe the pleasure of being greeted by the Commander of the Kingsguard?"

Ser Barristen shifted slightly in the saddle,

"Hail Lord Stark. The King has requested your presence at the royal tent. And your children are to come as well. The rest of your party is free to go on ahead and set up your tents."

Their lord father waved Sansa to ride close to them and Jon made to ride off with the other party members when he was stopped by a Lannister guard. He raise an eyebrow. The Lannister horseman sneered at him from behind his helmet's visor. Jon turned to his father and Eddard turned to Barristen for an explanation,

"The King wishes to see your children, Lord Stark. True and otherwise."

His father seemed surprised by this request but not more so than Jon himself. Although he was treated well as the brother of the Starks, that was only in the North. That the King of the Seven Kingdoms wanted to see him with his family was... well it was beyond unusual to be honest. He controlled his horse and followed just behind his family and Ser Barristen.

Just because his presence was requested, didn't mean his status as a bastard could be forgotten after all.

As they neared the royal tents, Jon noticed small crowds of Lords and Ladies waiting around. Obviously they were waiting to receive an audience with the King themselves... and here were the Starks riding straight on past to the King. And their bastard too! Jon was rather amused by some of the faces that were being pulled. Mainly because the people of the South didn't know which of the males was actually the bastard. Several actually glared at Robb rather than him! He supposed that might have been because Jon seemed to have inherited the more obvious of the Stark features.

As he was riding along, enjoying the annoyance of the southern lords and ladies, he spotted someone that made his mouth run dry and his concentration on riding slip. He pulled himself together as his horse was nearing her. She was beautiful in every sense of the word. Her skin was a soft white, white as silk, and looked to be just as smooth from where he was. Her brown hair was a deep and luxurious colour and seemed to bounce free in the breeze. She was wearing a dress that... well, if she had been wearing it in the North she would be getting frostbite in some rather interesting places. As it was, they were down South so all the dress did was impress upon Jon how her beauty extended from her bright, shining, eyes down to the tips of her toes.

She was smiling at him. It was a coy little smile that let him know she had caught him looking and she wasn't going to go running off and telling anyone about it either. The kind of smile that hormonal teenage boys always wanted to see on pretty girls. What dimmed his good mood for the moment was that it was likely she thought that he was Robb Stark, Heir to the entirety of the North. She was a near perfect beauty but she wasn't for the likes of him. He tried not to feel bitter about it but it was very hard when she turned to speak to one of her ladies in waiting, bending over in such a way as to showcase her rump. It was clearly a practiced move by the way her ladies giggled at him for looking and she smirked over her shoulder.

Okay he might have been a little bit jealous of his brother for his station at that moment.

The Stark family passed all the petitioners for the King and dismounted. Jon tried to shake his thoughts of the beautiful Lady from his thoughts as he straightened his clothes... on the command of his younger sister. Sansa was in full-on lady of the castle mode now, rushing between Bran and Robb, trying to make them presentable for the royal household. She attempted to fuss over her father's appearance but he just gave her an amused look and she backed off a bit, blushing. Jon chuckled slightly as he took his place to the side of his family, a few steps back as well.

As one the Stark family entered the main tent, leaving the slightly muddy fields for a richly decorated tent interior with two massive thrones. The King's throne was black and gold and the Queen's was red and gold.

The Queen was beautiful... but not in the same way as the Lady outside. She looked like she had once been just as beautiful but was now relying on makeup products from across the Narrow Sea to attempt to keep said beauty. It seemed to be a losing battle though as the only thing he could really describe her as was 'an aging beauty'... or maybe he could add that she looked more prideful than the lion that acted as the house sigil for the Lannisters.

The King on the other hand... was just disappointing. His father had told them all stories about Robert Baratheon - the King who won his crown in a massive rebellion. The man who had a warhammer so heavy that only he was able to wield it... the King who had crushed the Dragon Prince at the Trident with such force that the rubies in his armour shot off and scattered amongst the river's ford, earning it the name The Ruby Ford. They had been told that he was a true warrior king, like the Stormkings of old. And yet... on the throne sat a fat old man with a massive goblet of wine in hand and a handful of meat from a nearby table in the other hand.

It seemed the throne had suited Robert Baratheon ill.

None of the royal children were in sight but the Kingsguard stood to the right of the Queen was unmistakable. No knight looked more like a Lannister, arrogant but strong, than Jaime Lannister. The disgraced Kingsguard was someone Eddard Stark spoke of with true venom. Many assumed this was entirely from betraying his vows... Jon knew that at least some of his father's anger came from the fact that Jaime Lannister had killed the Mad King and robbed Eddard of the chance to do so himself, robbed him of his justice for Uncle Brandon and Grandfather Rickard.

His musings were cut short as the great big, fat, King stood from his massive throne. It would have to be massive to support the man's weight! Robert took a few steps forwards, his face grave. The King stopped in front of his father for a long moment before looking his father up and down.

"You've gotten fat."

Jon almost wanted to laugh. Surely it was a jape... the King couldn't compare the slight weight gain of middle-age his father had to the massive gut the King had. Of course his father seemed to find it amusing too, in his own way. Eddard Stark raised an eyebrow and merely glanced at the King's own, bulging, stomach. The King noticed and suddenly he was laughing, throwing away both the meat from one hand and the nearly-full goblet of wine from the other. The fat King and the Lord of Winterfell embraced tightly as friends and Jon was relieved that being King hadn't seemed to have crushed the friendship between the two older men. The King let his father loose from the hug,

"Gods Ned! It's been years!" he grinned wider than ever, "And you look even more serious than the last time... and last time we were stuffing Ironborn with steel! Ha! Come on now Ned... let's see your brood!"

And down the line he went. Robb was complimented for being named after a strong warrior - the King himself - and a gold dragon was clapped into his hand upon giving a firm handshake.

Bran was happy to see the King but, as he was still quite young, was unable to hide his disappointment that he was nothing like the stories. Of course the Wolf Cub was nothing if not a smart young man so knew better than to actually show he was disappointed.

Sansa greeted the King with perfect Southern manners, something which caught both the King and the Queen off guard for a moment. Jaime Lannister just smirked, as he did at absolutely everything it seemed. The King had declared Sansa to be even prettier than her mother before giving an apologue for mentioning the girl's dead mother.

The King was not one for tack it seemed.

Then the King surprised Jon by walking to him, at the end of the line. Jon looked up at the King - he may have been fat but he was tall enough that if you shaved off the fat, Jon was certain the man would have been intimidating. The King grinned the playful grin of a man half his age,

"Here he is!" he grabbed the startled Jon by the head in a head lock, rubbing his hair affectionately as he spoke to Eddard across the tent, "You're bastard the Wolf Knight! I heard he gutted squids left and right before challenging the captain himself!"

Jon was struggling to free himself from the older man's grasp because the fat king was still strong... and he was beginning to have trouble breathing. Robb seemed to take delight in this,

"Oh I was their your grace... he took the Ironborn down with an axe and a sword!" he declared, an evil little glint in his eye as he tormented his brother, "He said a shield would slow him down... get in the way of him making more dead Ironborn! And when he defeated the captain he was knighted on the spot by Ser Jorah Mormont! Apparently killing Ironborn reminded the Lord Mormont about how he received his own knighthood."

King Robert loved the story it seemed. He was laughing louder and had tightened his grip on Jon's head. Honestly... this was the behaviour of a town guard or some other warrior, not behaviour befitting the King of Westeros! The King finally released Jon to pat him hard on the back instead,

"Knighted for killing Ironborn... Gods! That's the kind of thing I like to see! A man gets a knighthood for being an honest to gods WARRIOR!" he bellowed before shaking his head in exasperation, "So! Ser Jon Snow! Will you take to the field tomorrow? Will you show all those Southern knights what it means to get your knighthood while the blood of your enemies is still warm on your steel?!"

He sighed, shaking his head at Eddard,

"Honestly Ned... knights from our day were knighted for their skills! Most of the knights out there were knighted because of who their fathers' were!" he clapped Jon on the back again, "Tell your son Ned..."

Jon's back was hurting from the King's enthusiasm but he still noticed the smile on his father's face and he knew that he was doomed. His father was into this little game of the King's now and Robb was clearly encouraging it as well. He resigned himself to it and raised his hands before his father could actually agree with his old friend,

"Alright alright!" he shook his head in exasperated amusement, "I'll enter… I'll enter the melee, the sword and the joust."

The King looked fit to burst he was so happy. For some reason the thought of seeing his old friend's bastard out on the field fighting other knights made the fat King happy… Jon wasn't going to complain though. His father was smiling as well. It was a little bit sad but then all of his father's smiles were at least a little bit sad these days. He made sure to grin for his father's sake as the King slapped him on the back again,

"And when you win them all any woman in the kingdom will bed you!"

Jon blushed and his mind wandered to the Lady he had seen on his way here. She was no Dacey Mormont but she was beautiful in her own way. And Dacey wasn't here. And the King had said any woman in the kingdom… he daren't hope just yet though. He would have to win something first and he had some stiff competition. But he was a Wolf of Winterfell. He would fight tooth and nail, and show all the Southern knights what a warrior of the North was made of.


	7. Chapter 7

The Wolf Knight Proves Himself

Jon sucked in a breath in pain as Robb tightened his chest plate. There was obviously padding beneath the metal but it hadn't done all that much to stop the bruising he had received in the melee. He had made a good showing but, honestly, there had been far too many experienced fighters for him to come out on top every time.

Sure, he had defeated one of the Kingsguard but no one in the realm really thought that Meryn Trent was really a worthy knight to begin with. Jon defeating him in the melee had caused the knight no end of mocking laughter but it hadn't brought any great prestige to Jon himself. Not that he cared too much about that because the next opponent in the melee, a knight from the Riverlands somewhere, caught him off guard and bruised his right ribs all to hells.

His team in the melee had won though so he was still granted some 'glory', but he was seen as less than worthy because he had been taken out of the fight due to solid hit to ribs. Still gotten a small purse of silver stags for being on the winning side though.

That was small comfort right now as the tightening of the armour was cutting into the side that had been hit. He had been competing in the one-on-one sword competition for a few hours now and it hadn't done his bruising any good. The only good thing was he had advanced through brackets with people with below average skill with a blade and was now in the final of the sword competition. Only problem was he was still in pain and his opponent was someone competent at least this time,

"Tell me the truth Robb, you've been watching his matches. Is he good?"

His brother finished tightening the straps before humming a little bit, rubbing at the beginnings of a beard he was growing. Jon honestly thought that until his brother actually had GOOD facial hair, he should keep shaving like he was. Instead his brother had a wispy little beard,

"Not gunna lie Jon, he's good. Heard people from the Reach talking - apparently he trains with three or four different people at once." he grinned a little bit, "Says it prepares him for battle better. I think you're about to meet the closest thing the South has to a proper warrior Jon."

Somehow that didn't fill him with confidence. He himself had started training with two guardsmen at a time when they had been visiting the other keeps in the North - Robb had as well. It was much harder than it sounded and to hear his opponent regularly trained with three or more? Well, Jon was suddenly feeling even worse about his chances. Robb seemed to sense this,

"Come on Jon..." he punched his upper arm, only succeeding it nudging Jon and hurting his knuckles, "You can't go out there already defeated."

Well he wasn't going out there already defeated... but he admitted he was feeling the pressure a bit now. His father and King Robert had enjoyed his showing in the melee but the simple fact of the matter was that he had let himself down, even if he had been on the winning team. He needed to win this for himself and to show the South that the North had warriors who could beat them at their own game.

He wasn't even sure where this thirst to prove his homeland came from but he would be damned before he let his people down,

"I won't let you all down." he assured Robb with a small smile, "I am of the North. I can crush some flower of Highgarden."

Robb grinned back, clapping his hands onto his shoulders,

"I know you will. You want to know how I know?" he smirked before turning to a chest he had brought into Jon's tent. Opening it, he withdrew something that both Jon and Robb recognised on sight,

"The bear?"

Robb smiled back,

"The Bear." he agreed, removing the massive bear-cloak that had been fashioned from the skin of the bear Jon had killed to save his brother. It had been made only a month after the kill but both Jon and Robb had refused to wear it until they were strong warriors.

That and the thing was easily six foot long and they had been under 5 foot at the time.

Robb stood behind Jon and began to clasp the bear-cloak to his armour,

"You killed this bear Jon. With nothing but a knife and your will, you beat this bear." he spoke, his voice taking on that motivational quality Jon had noticed it taking when he commanded the guardsmen on their trip, "You killed this bear because your will, your determination, was worth more than its strength and it's experience."

Not talking just about the bear here it seemed.

"We both should have died that day Jon..." his brother continued, making sure the cloak was smoothed and making sure the ties at the front were locked perfectly in place, "But you said no. You took up your knife and you fought... what's the difference between then and now? We were cold and hungry children back then. You're a little bruised now. But what's the difference?"

Jon knew his brother was manipulating his emotions, motivating him as their father had told them leaders did. He knew it was happening and he neither held it against his brother, nor resisted. He nodded to himself as he tried to shake his limbs to get the blood pumping,

"Nothing." he replied to his brother, "There is no difference between then and now."

Robb smirked a little bit as he handed Jon his helmet. Holding the helmet in his hand for a moment, Jon passed it back to his brother. He wouldn't be needing it, hopefully. He drew his sword from his waist and swung it a few times, testing its balance as he mentally prepared himself even more,

"Come on Jon... Show that flower what it means to be a wolf of the North!"

Now thoroughly motivated by his brother, Jon burst out of his tent with his sword ready at his side and the bear-cloak flapping slightly in the wind. The area was simple enough - a circle of compacted dirt with a small fence around it. Around the arena itself were benches set up for the spectators. Many of these spectators gasped at seeing Jon so changed from the bruised by rather boring youth who had entered the tent.

His opponent was ready in the arena, his armour high quality steel with a crown of roses wrapped around his upper right arm. Upon seeing that Jon wasn't going to be wearing a helmet, Garlan Tyrell took his own helmet off with a half-cocky, half-amused, smirk,

"I guess we should keep it even." he admitted, handing his helmet to his squire before swinging his own sword a little as Jon stepped into the arena, "I must say... you appear to have changed quite a lot from when you went in there. When you went into your tent there were some who said you were going to concede!"

Jon twirled his sword once before slipping into his ready stance, his sword held in both hands, down and slightly to the right of his body,

"You should know that a wolf doesn't just lay down... he comes back with teeth barred." he was enjoying the banter already and could tell that Garlan shared the same frustration he had felt earlier at the level of competition. Even in pain Jon hadn't felt any of them were a challenge - he could only imagine how bored Garlan had been, "I watched some of your fights before... you looked at bored and disappointed as I was with mine. I hope you're not expecting an easy last match."

Jon had to admit that Garlan Tyrell looked positively Northern the way he grinned at the prospect of a good fight. He slammed his sword against the shield he held on the other arm,

"Well then Ser Snow!" he announced, none of the familiar southern mocking of his name present, "Ready yourself! I would face the fury of the North when none could say I have an unfair advantage!"

Either Garlan didn't know about the extent of his injuries or was playing the crowd regardless. Either way though, Jon would give his opponent everything he had. Reaching down, he grabbed his own shield from the side of the arena, banging his own sword against it,

"Ready yourself Ser Garlan!"

As one they moved. Both of them opened with a textbook swipe of their swords, designed to test the reflexes of the opponent. Jon pulled his sword back with a grin that he was sure Garlan was hiding behind his slightly raised shield. Neither of them had expected to land a hit with their opening blow - not in this match, not like they both had done against inferior opponents up until this point. Jon decided to stay on the offensive, not used to defending too much in the yard and not willing to bet that Garlan's attack couldn't beat his defence.

Flicking his sword forwards in a feint, Jon instead lashing out with his shield heavily, knocking Garlan back when the older man was able to just bring his shield up to block the attack. In that moment Jon could feel that the pace of the battle was his to set. Garlan was on the back foot, even if it was only for a moment but would not be for long - he needed to capitalise immediately. With a roar he slashed down with his sword, the blow blocked by Garlan's shield even as Jon's shield met Garlan's thrust sword with equal force.

The sword skidded off the length of the shield, missing Jon's chest plate by a few inches. But both Jon and Garlan knew that the older knight had become over extended because of the attack. Garlan tried to pull his sword back, lashing out with his shield as a distraction. Jon took the shield blow to the shoulder even as his sword impacted with the armour of Garlan's sword-hand. A trumpet blared from the side of their little arena and both fighters broke apart from each other, Jon with a little grin and Garlan gingerly rolling his sword hand as they returned to the ends of the small arena.

A small flag was fitted into the wooden arena side beside Jon. If they weren't using blunted tourney swords then Ser Garlan would have now found himself without his sword hand... and because that essentially meant death on the battlefield, the first point was Jon's. The first fighter to get to two points would be victorious and walk away with the trophy and the prize money. And unlike the melee, where the prize money was divided amongst 13 people on a winning team, the winner of the Sword contest shared with no one.

For some reason Jon could just tell that money would be needed for himself in the near future.

Taking a drink of weak ale that Bran had brought over, he grinned at his younger brother as he banged his sword against his shield to signal that he was ready. Almost immediately he realised he had been too cocky as Garlan was on him in seconds, sword flashing out like lightning as Jon was immediately forced onto the defensive. He tried to get used to the pace that Garlan had set but his initial surprise was costing him this exchange. Every hit was parried just a little bit later than the last until Jon swore as Garlan's sword slammed into his chest plate with a heavy sound.

The trumpet blared again and Jon thought he could see disappointment in his opponent's eyes. Jon scowled a little bit at his own mistake of over-confidence. His father had told him of several times where great warriors were felled more by their own foolish pride than the skill of their opponents. It was one of the things he didn't like in all of these Southern knights as well... and it had taken a Tyrell Knight, of all people, to reaffirm in his mind why pride was folly a knight or warrior should not indulge in. If he had been fighting Garlan to the death, he would be dead right now.

He calmed down a little, taking another drink offered by Bran again. Seeing that his little brother was a little distressed, he gave him a little grin,

"Don't worry Bran..." he assured his brother quietly, "I won't embarrass myself. Still got some tricks up my sleeve."

With his sword held tightly in his right hand, Jon took a deep breath before facing Garlan again. Garlan grinned back at him over the edge of his shield, slamming his sword against it to signal his readiness. Jon did the same and the two knight both launched forwards at each other, their swords clashing, their shields almost forgotten as they both attempted to gain control of the pace of the battle with their attacks. Each attack rang out against the other as the two knights duelled with speed and precision more than power.

Their dance was broken up when Garlan took a step back. Jon took this as an opportunity to reach over to his left arm and unlash his shield from his forearm. Garlan watched his opponent rather quizzically but his sense of honour seemed to stop him from attacking... Jon was thankful for that, because that would have actually been a legal opportunity for Garlan to win the match.

Thankfully this southern knight seemed to be one of the few who thought there was more honour in fighting fairly in a tournament than simply winning the tournament by whatever means necessary.

Jon dropped his shield to the ground and stretched both his arms out, making sure he was loose enough for what he was about to attempt. Nodding his appreciation to Garlan, he allowed the other knight a moment to ready himself before charging forwards. His sword once again was met by Garlan's, each attack parried wonderfully. Jon was managing to avoid the movements of Garlan's shield due to his own increased movement but it would appear to all, including Garlan if Jon's plan worked, that they were just as evenly matched with their speed as before.

As their blades clashed yet again, Jon noted with some satisfaction that Garlan was using his shield less - he was more focused on the clash of blades. Their clashes were happening at a steady pace... but Jon's plan was now taking shape. Without warning, Jon stepped up the pace. Instantly their strikes went from equal in speed and strength to Jon's dwarfing that of Garlan. The inevitable happened and Garlan was too slow to parry or block a heavy strike to the side of his knee. Even with the tourney swords that kind of damage hurt. With a startled cry, Garlan fell to one knee and Jon's sword was up in a flash, touching the side of Garlan's head.

There was a pause where there was nothing but silence before Jon was made aware that this WAS a tournament... by the roar of approval from those watching. Jon took a step back from his defeated opponent and just took it in. There were dozens upon dozens of people cheering for his victory - not as many as would see the joust but enough for Jon to really feel like he had accomplished something here. With a grin he reached down to Garlan with his free hand,

"Well fought Ser Garlan." he congratulated his opponent, "You almost had me back there."

Garlan took the hard with a grin and Jon helped haul the other knight to his feet. The Tyrell Knight clapped Jon on the shoulder,

"If I'd taken that opening I would have... seems the North has men with cunning and honour at the same time!" he declared with a happy grin, wincing slightly when he put pressure on his leg. He gave Jon a wry smile, "I'm going to bruise like a Highgarden Peach... but I know I fought against a worthy young warrior so no hard feelings right Ser Jon?"

Not Ser Snow? That was a distinction that Jon rather enjoyed actually. He grinned as he handed his sword and discarded shield back to a madly-grinning Bran,

"None at all Ser Garlan." he smirked, "I was surprised a rose of Highgarden could be so deadly with a blade."

The bantering continued between the two knights as Garlan's squire collected his weapons and the two knights approached the small royal box. It was much smaller than the one for the joust but it was no less grand, complete with golden gilding of Stags and Lions. Jon still found it a tad off that the Lion was given the same prominence as the Stag but he ignored the feeling as both her and Ser Garlan knelt down in front of the royal family, now silent and respectful.

The great boar of a king was laughing boisterously and seemed to be finalising a bet that had been made with a short man. A very short man... with blond hair. Jon recognised Tyrion Lannister, the "Imp of Casterly Rock", but made no move to react to the presence of the Queen's brother. The royal children were present as well - the eldest looked bored but the youngest male, Tommen, seemed to be jumping excitedly at the prospect of meeting the knights. He reminded Jon of Rickon actually, even though the prince was a few years the senior of the youngest Stark. The princess, on the other hand, seemed to be doing her best to look as composed as royalty should.

Jon thought the effect was ruined by the looks she sneaked at Garlan that were complete with flushing cheeks.

He was sure that Garlan noticed as well but all he did was smile back at the princess with a polite smile. Nothing to lead her on but also nothing to crush her child-like attraction to him. Jon's attention was snapped back to the royal box as the King stepped forwards,

"Well thank fuck that's done with!" he roared with another laugh, some in the crowd laughing alongside their king but not many, "The competition before this match was fucking awful! I damn dear drank myself to sleep it was so fucking dull!"

There was a general murmuring of the crowd and Jon couldn't help but think about how ill-suited Robert Baratheon was to being King. The King seemed to either ignore the murmurs... or actually was too drunk to have really noticed in the first place,

"But then! Thank the seven! A match worth fucking watching!" the crowd was eager to agree with this statement and Jon felt a little redness creep onto his cheeks from such open attention from so many people, "In second place... the only Rose of Highgarden with a cock bigger than a rose-thorn... Ser Garlan Tyrell!"

Garlan stood and accepted the silver statue while graciously thanking the King. It was clear by how stiff his movements were when walking away that Garlan had not appreciated the King's slight towards him and his family at all. Jon would have dwelt on the insult a little longer but the King was not yet done,

"And the winner! With a little fancy fucking sword work... Ser Jon Snow of the North!" he announced, beckoning Jon over to him as the crowd gave another small roar of approval. The King handed Jon a golden statue of a stag with a crown around its neck... and a leather bag filled with golden dragons. The King's drunken breath was clear even from where Jon stood below the box, his prizes in hand, "You all saw it here first you whelps! The Wolf Knight! With all the ferocity of a Wolf and all the skill of a man!"

The crowd roared louder in response and Jon waved to them with a little smile. His eyes found his family off to the side, Bran having run up to join the rest of their family in the box they'd paid for. His siblings were cheering for him and his father... his father looked on with open pride at his performance. That was all Jon really needed - the rest of the crowd was nice - but he would have been just as happy with just his family being happy for him. He waved a little bit more to the crowd as he marched back towards his tent.

A light giggle from one of the nearby benches caught his attention and he turned to see the same woman from before. The same light brown hair and fair, pale, skin. She was dressed, once again, in a dress that would be considered decent... but threatened to reveal all that was not considered decent with but a pull of a thread. She was sitting by a very pretty teenage boy with blond hair and... and Garlan. The older man smirked at him as the young lady waved to him coyly and the younger man kept a... very close eye on him. Almost the same kind of eyes his sister was making at him actually. But that was something he wasn't going to be thinking too hard about.

Not when he finally had a name for the woman he had been unable to get out of his head - Margery Tyrell.


	8. Chapter 8

Pageantry and Knighthood

Jon wasn't nervous.

Not right now - not when he was right in the moment. Right now the droning of the crowd, their baying and their cheers, fell away. All that Jon could hear was the clomping of his horse's hooves and his own, steady, breathing. He tightened his grip on the horse's flanked with his legs, spurring the best forwards, trying to eke out more speed from the stallion.

With the same calm and near silence, Jon levelled the lance as best he could, aiming for the centre of mass of his rapidly approaching opponent. Closer and closer they thundered until Jon was certain, with a small adjustment of his lance, that he would score a hit.

Jon's lance seemed to touch the other man's chest gently at first... before the force of his momentum forced the lance forwards at a powerful pace. The lance broke and splintered loudly as Jon's opponent's body left his saddle and was sent sailing backwards through the air, to land with a loud crash on the ground.

In a second, all the noise of the jousting arena came back. The people were cheering louder than they had been before and he could pick out specific people's voices - The King was hardly quiet after all. Slowing his horse to a trot, Jon raised the remains of his lance high above his head, much to the approval of his 'adoring fans'. Throwing the broken lance down to the servants tasked with collecting the ruined weapons, Jon trotted his horse back to his starting position.

He noted the Frey Knight he had unhorsed was unharmed and directed his horse towards the knight... who looked to be about the same age as himself actually. For some reason the Frey seemed almost distraught by something. It took Jon a moment to realise that the man's horse had broken a leg... and was going to be put down. This wouldn't be an issue for a knight from a more prosperous house but a Frey knight likely had to pay for his own equipment.

Jon paused for a moment before dismounting. The Frey knight seemed to notice him and tried to put a smile on his weasel-like face,

"Good tilt Ser Jon."

The man was doing his best to hide how much he hated that his squire was currently slitting his struggling steed's throat. Jon winced a little bit but was able to note that the squire was also a Frey, about the same age as Bran was. Jon nodded his thanks to the Frey knight,

"I apologise Ser but I didn't catch your name at the lists... I'm afraid I focus too greatly when it comes to the joust."

The Frey knight smirked. Obviously he was accustomed to people mixing him up with the rest of his brood - Jon was grateful the knight hadn't taken offence,

"No offence taken Ser." he held a hand out, "I am Ser Waldis Frey."

Jon had heard about how each Frey was named, in some way, after Walder Frey but hadn't believed it until today. Jon took the hand, shaking it once before nodding to himself in thought,

"I'm sorry about your horse Ser Waldis... and it is my fault." he reached into the winnings pouch from the sword, passing the surprised knight three gold dragons. More than enough for a good new horse and perhaps a new weapon, "Please, I hope this will serve you well."

The Frey knight looked at Jon with narrowed eyes for a few moments, as if judging Jon and his action. After a moment the man's face relaxed into an easy smile,

"You are a true knight Ser Jon."

Jon waved to Waldis and his squire before leading his horse back over to the starting position. Some in the closest row had heard the conversation it seemed as some were giving him some approving or disapproving looks. He would have ignored them all but he noticed two people who stuck out slightly.

There was a rather striking woman with dark hair standing beside a young man with blond hair. What was striking was the strange blue of the boy's eyes and the purple of the woman's. He frowned slightly. He thought he remembered where those eyes were from but the answer escaped him. Another thing that caught his eye was the greatsword sheathed over the young man's back. Even just from seeing the pommel of the sword, he could tell that it was beautiful and beautiful swords tended to have a rich and colourful history.

For now, Jon decided to ignore the beautiful woman and the blond haired teen with his beautiful sword. They weren't doing any harm, even if they seemed to be watching him with far greater intensity than anyone else in the arena.

He reached the start point and mounted up again. Jory, leader of the men his father had brought with him, handed him his next lance,

"Alright Jon... You've done well so far but this next one might be a bitch." he advised with a scowl, "You're up against The Hound."

Jon looked to the other end of the arena and, lo and behold, saw a steel dog helm staring back at him from atop the large man across the arena from him. He checked his helmet was still closed and in place perfectly as he held the lance with his other hand,

"Well then Jory... I say I show this dog the difference between the bite of a wolf..." he laughed as he raised his lance to signal he was ready, "And the bite of a direwolf."

The Hound raised his own lance and the flag was waved to begin the round. His lance lowered to aim true at The Hound's chest plate. Once again the noise of the crowd died away and Jon was lost to his focus. His lance was ready and on point... but The Hound had enough strength to thrust his lance forwards at the last minute.

Jon's entire upper body snapped backwards as the crushing lance impacted his chest plate right in the centre. Through sheer force of will his legs gripped the horse tighter and his one hand on the reigns managed to keep him on the horse. His back was killing him, as was the front where the lance had actually impacted. Groaning slightly in pain, he managed to roll slightly in the saddle so that he was upright again.

It wasn't the first time he had been hit with a lance and he doubted it would be the last... though no one had managed to hit with as much force as The Hound. Jon rolled his neck a little bit, trying to move his body parts one at a time to make sure the damage wasn't worse than he had originally thought. Thankfully it seemed he would get away with bruising to the middle of his chest but little else. Jon waved off Jory's concern from the side-lines - he would be fine. He took a few deep breaths, noting how The Hound seemed to be waiting for him to prepare himself again.

One of the squires on the side-lines ran back over to him, giving him a fresh lance and taking the other away quickly. He gripped the lance tightly before raising it again to show he was ready. The Hound raised his own and without further delay, the two knights spurred their horses' forwards as fast as possible. Jon gritted his teeth almost all of the way along the length of the list, his focus on nothing but The Hound himself. With a roar behind his helmet as they met in the middle, Jon did his best to thrust forwards harder, just as The Hound did.

Jon was able to see his lance smashing into the face-plate of The Hound helmet for only a second before his own vision went black as his opponent's lance smashed into the side of his helmet. Roaring in pain, Jon gripped the horse for dear life as he felt the blood start flowing. He had heard about tournament accidents and this had all the makings of one - and he was in it! He pulled his horse to a stop and attempted to assess the damage, ignoring the gasps of the crowd as he could feel his own blood running down his left cheek. No doubt it was making a bloody mess of his chest plate. Jon always did try and think of strange things when he was in pain - focusing on something else tended to help numb the pain slightly.

He couldn't see out of his helmet properly - it had taken a rather vicious beating from The Hound's lance. His eyes were fine, thank the old gods and the new, but he could feel that the metal had buckled and stabbed into his face at several points. Most felt like they were above his left ear, in the hair line, but there was a big one on his cheek. With tentative hands, Jon undid his helmet at the back, loosening it. Grimacing to himself, Jon pulled the mangled helmet from his head gently. Broken metal was pulled from wounds in the side of his face and he winced in pain as more blood fell. There were some gasps from the crowd but Jon ignored them in favour of touching his head, testing where the helmet had punctured him.

As expected there was a large gash along his left cheek and there seemed to be a splattering of smaller cuts on and around his left ear. Wincing at that, Jon allowed Jory to give him a hand dismounting the horse. One of the tournament maesters was with Jory and immediately began checking him over,

"You'll live Ser Jon... The gods only know how lucky you are." the old healer told him with a click of his tongue as he wiped away some of the blood with a wet cloth to inspect the wounds, "The cuts around your hair line as less severe... no hair will grow on the scars of course but nothing too severe. As for your cheek... it will need stitches."

Well... that was less than what Jon had been worried about honestly. He had worried that he would always have a hole in the side of his face or something like that. But he could put up with stitches if it meant he wouldn't be subjected to that. He winced lightly as the maester further inspected the wound. Jon turned slightly to Jory,

"And what of my opponent?"

Jory paused for a moment before shrugging slightly, gesturing to Jon's other side,

"Well, I'd say you've won."

Jon's head whipped round to where he had last seen The Hound. The Maester tutted but Jon was more focused on the body that was being carried out of the arena. It was completely covered... he had killed The Hound. He grimaced again as the maester led him out of the arena, muttering something about maggots and the like. Jon turned to Jory when the two of them were left alone,

"What the bloody hell happened Jory?" he growled slightly. He hadn't meant to kill anyone and killing a man in what was supposed to be a glorified game did not sit well with him, "I hit his helmet, aye, but he hit mine too. How did my lance do enough damage to kill whereas his didn't?"

Jory sighed a little bit,

"His didn't splinter." he admitted before adding, "Everyone knows lances splinter... but yours splintered and pushed one right through his eye into his brain. An honest accident... but still not a way for a warrior like that to die."

Jon had to agree. Though no one would say that Sandor Clegane was an honourable man, none could doubt his skill in battle. The man was ferocious in battle with any number of weapons - said to be one of the few warriors in the land who might stand a chance against Gregor Clegane, his elder brother. Honestly, that meant there was probably no single man who could stop Gregor Clegane if the man decided to go on a rampage.

And the stories said Gregor was want to rampage.

Honestly, Jon was hoping that Gregor Clegane wasn't someone who looked for revenge. The stories he'd heard said the Cleganes hated one another but, knowing Jon's luck, they would have ended their feud a day before Jon's lance flew a bit too true. No use worrying about it for now though he supposed. He nodded to Jory,

"Go tell my family I'm alright and just waiting for the maester?" he asked the older man, wincing slightly as his open cheek wound made it harder to speak, "Tell them I'll be out soon."

Jory nodded in agreement and hurried away. No doubt the young man recognised that the Stark family had been in attendance and would be aching for some news, even though he had been able to walk out of the lists... unlike his opponent of course. He sighed a little bit and rested his head in one of his hands. He didn't like that he'd taken a life for such a trifling affair - a tournament joust of all things! He groaned in frustration before hearing soft, approaching, footfalls,

"Stitching time already maester?" he asked with resignation, "Too much to hope for you to have stitching that puts a septa to shame is it?"

The footsteps stopped,

"Well, my stitch is beautiful but I'm afraid I tend to stitch patterns on fabrics, not handsome faces."

Jon's eyes widened and he immediately lowered his hand to find Margery Tyrell stood in front of him, not the maester. Honestly, with the soft flowery scent, he was surprised he hadn't caught on that she wasn't the maester. Perhaps Margery Tyrell could be sneaky when needed? He didn't know and he would be lying to himself if he said that was the most important thing in his mind right now. Most of his mind was tied up wondering how hard he would have to pull for her entire dress to fall away.

Judging by how loose and free-flowing it seemed to be... Jon was convinced he could tear it off of her lovely body with one motion.

Of course he wasn't about to test that theory right now. He was a knight and he would be honourable in his conduct around ladies. Despite the gash across his cheek he managed a small smile at her joke,

"If you did, I imagine I'd have the prettiest stitching across the land." he told her, half-joking before becoming more seriously, "You are far away from your protective brothers my lady... to what do I owe this pleasure?"

Margery didn't as much as twitch to give away her intentions and Jon was beginning to feel a little wary. It was strange - it felt like there was something dangerous about Margery but that instinctive feeling was totally at odds with her appearance. Maybe that was why she would be dangerous? He tried to ignore the sensation to focus on the conversation itself,

"Ser Jon... I have noticed you trying to catch my attention, ser."

Jon had the decency to blush. And had enough of his thinking mind left from her charm to wonder how he was able to blush so well when one of his cheeks was cut almost straight through. He grimaced a little bit at the pain in his cheek, touching the area gingerly, he sighed slightly,

"I admit my lady... I was entranced by you." he agreed with a small smile, the blush still present, "I imagine you get that all the time."

The lack of a blush suggested that she did indeed get the same type of attention all of the time. She giggled a little bit but Jon could have sworn it was entirely difference to the innocent giggles of Sansa and Jayne. Which was ridiculous in his mind... how could a giggle be so different between two women? He didn't really know but this giggle seemed to make his blush grow more pronounced,

"Was entranced?" she asked, her full lips moving forwards ever so slightly to give the barest hints of a pouting expression, "And what, pray tell Ser, changed?"

'The fact that your second oldest brother is a swordsman my greater despite my victory over him?' He thought to himself in amusement, 'Or your youngest brother being praised as the second coming of Jaime Lannister and also seeming to hate me if the way he stares at me constantly is any indication?'

Seeing that these thoughts would give the wrong impression, he instead quickly thought up the smoothest answer he could on the fly,

"Well I thought it would be a tad foolish to be so smitten with a woman I knew nothing about." he admitted with a weak chuckle, "Didn't want to come off as one of those guys just interested in you physically."

Jon immediately decided that taking some time to think his response through would have been better. Margery seemed to think so as well because she laughed brightly. Thankfully it wasn't a giggle but he still reddened at being laughed at. She managed to get herself under control quickly and just smirked at Jon,

"'Just interested physically'?" she quoted him with a predatory look in her eyes, "I do believe you've tipped your hand ser. Ser Jon... Would you consider doing me a favour?"

She wasn't going to let up was she? He honestly thought his blushing was making his cheek wound bleed more. But he was also rather enjoying the attention so he decided to take the plunge,

"Depends what you would ask of me, my lady." he told her honestly before hurriedly adding, "And what I would gain from doing said favour for you."

He didn't want to make it seem like he was just going to rush to do whatever she asked him to do. He was a direwolf of Winterfell, not some lapdog eager to please its master. Margery raised an eyebrow,

"My favour is simple... do not joust against my brother Loras." she requested of him simply, reaching down to touch his uninjured cheek, "You are a strong fighter Ser Jon and I do not think you know the meaning of restraint so I ask you... do not joust against my brother. He is my closest friend and I would not see him harmed."

The touch was disarming and her voice soothing, reassuring. What was the harm in withdrawing now? He was injured so no one would question his decision and it would have no impact on his honour. Some might charitably assume he was stopping to honour the opponent he had just killed as well. It would be very easy to just do as she requested - he might even get something from her in return.

Something tugged at the back of Jon's mind and his cheek wound throbbed with pain. All of a sudden the touch to his cheek seemed a tad too cold and he could see that she was leading him with her words. That wasn't to say that he hadn't noticed before but more to say that he hadn't cared when she first asked. Now, with a spike of pain to thank for it, he was seeing beyond what her voice and touch seemed to promise.

He would lose face, lose honour. The people out there knew his injury wasn't enough for him to be written out of the lists and no one blamed him for the death of The Hound so none of them would accept that he cared, even though he did. And he would be denying Loras Tyrell the chance to prove himself further - there was nothing to be gained if you just won matches because your opponent didn't show up. He took a deep breath and turned his head slightly, taking her soft hand in his own. He kissed the back of her hand,

"I am afraid I must disappoint you my lady." he told her as he stood up straighter, "I will not bow out. Your brother will have a true chance to prove himself, just like Garlan did. Good day to you my lady."

Grabbing his helmet off the side, he glanced at it before shaking his head and entering the arena again. His arrival was met with cheers from the crowd and Loras, who had been pandering to the crowd on his entrance, stopped to stare at him. One of the servant boys rushed to lead his horse to him and another brought a second helmet. He raised an eyebrow at the helmet before recognising it as Robb's. He grinned up to his family in the stands, noticing that Bran looked positively bouncing with excitement, Robb was happy to see him out, Sansa was gasping at the wound and his father with simply watching with a raised eyebrow. Jon swung himself up onto his horse, putting the helmet on with only a small wince at the way it brushed against his wound.

Holding his hand out for a lance, he locked gazes with Loras. The young knight stared back at Jon for a moment with what looked like confusion before grinning and spurring his own horse back to the start point eagerly. It seemed to Jon that Loras wanted this joust even if his sister didn't. Closing the visor down with his free hand, Jon raised his lance to signal he was ready to begin. Loras did the same and the two knights began thundering towards each other, lances aimed with as much precision as they could manage.

Jon swore as he was whipped back in the saddle but managed to remain atop his horse. It seemed the blood on his breastplate had acted as a target because Loras' lance had connected squarely with the center. Groaning a little in pain, he rounded his horse again and accepted another lance. His old one had shattered against Loras' breastplate it would seem. Grinning behind his visor, Jon ignored the lingering pain in his cheek and raised his lance again.

Once again Jon thundered down the list towards Loras and once again he was whipped back in his saddle, his own lance having broken against Loras. Three more times they charged at each other and each time Jon came away with a dent in his chest armour and a broken lance.

"Whoever wins this one wins the match!" Roared the king, startling both knights at their starting points again, "Get it over with before I piss me-self!"

Jon made a face behind his visor. Trust King Robert to put an end to something in the vilest way possible. Grabbing the lance offered to him by another servant boy, he took a deep breath before raising it. Loras did the same and they both spurred their horses onwards. Jon focused solely on his opponent, just as he had done before, and aimed true. His lance hit Loras in the stomach and lifted the other knight up out of his saddle and deposited him none too gently to the ground. The cheers were deafening as Jon dropped his broken lance and leapt off of his horse. He removed his borrowed helmet as he neared the stands, throwing it back up to Robb, who caught it with a laugh. He waved to the rest of the crowd.

Two small groups of people caught his eye.

Again he caught the eye of one blond man and one dark haired woman, who were not celebrating. Instead they merely watched him with their blue and purple eyes. Once again the hilt of the young man's greatsword caught Jon's eye. He moved past them and immediately found himself looking to the Tyrells.

Garlan looked absolutely over the moon about either the victory or something else and clapped loudly. Margery... well Margery was just staring at him with slightly narrowed eyes. It seemed to Jon that she was not accustomed to being denied what she wanted. He supposed this would serve as a lesson to her. Besides, after being battered by a lance for a while, Jon realised that someone like her... she would never have given him what he wanted. And he couldn't exactly blame her for not wanting to do so. He bowed his head to her before trotting back over to Loras,

"Ser Loras!" he called out to the other knight, dismounting to help the other knight to his feet, "A fine showing to be sure... I thought you had me back there."

Loras removed his own helmet, beautiful locks of hair bouncing free as he flashed Jon a winning smile,

"And indeed I did Ser Jon!" he shot back, giving a few girls in the front row a wave as the two knights stood together, "I was surprised you even turned up... I heard the masester's tent got some much improved scenery."

Jon smirked a little bit as he grabbed Loras' hand tightly in his own and raised it above his head, much to the approval of the crowd. Loras' eyes widened at how tight Jon's grip had become. Jon grinned down at the other man, who was slightly smaller than him,

"The men of the North do not back down from battle Ser Loras... no matter how beautiful the scenery." he told the man with a wink, "Why do you think no one has ever conquered the North?"

Loras snorted in amusement,

"A lack of desire to live in a frozen wasteland?"

Jon grinned back, his cheek wound still bleeding freely,

"No - fear of the men such a place breeds."


	9. Chapter 9

The Whitewolf

Jon hadn't made a big scene when it came to naming his Queen of Love and Beauty. Instead of giving it to another house's maiden and signalling interest in said maiden. A part of him had wanted to give the little crown of flowers to Margery but not after her not-so-subtle attempt to influence him. He would have considered Dacey but the young Mormont woman wasn't present. So, Jon gave the crown to the only other woman present he knew enough to admire.

Ser Jon Snow gave the title of Love and Beauty to his younger sister, Sansa Stark. He'd given her a polite peck on the cheek to go along with it and no one present was offended. It was a surreal experience to be honest, to be a Bastard of the North and have even that little bit of control over the feelings of the southern Ladies. It was a feeling he imagined felt a lot better due to his own age - one of the terrors of being a young man after all!

The large purse of gold he had won from the joust, added to the money won in the sword, meant that Ser Jon Snow was currently richer than he ever had been before. Enough to help him do almost anything, provided he had another source of income after it as well. This... was why he was currently not celebrating at the King's feast but sat across a table from his father.

His incredibly serious father.

On the table in between them was a map of The North with every settlement on it. It was the most up to date map anyone had of The North, compiled just the year before. He was doing something he had never thought he would do before this tournament and before his 'grand idea', as Robb had taken to calling it. He was sitting across from his father because he was requesting land of his own. He was requesting to leave Winterfell to make his own home within The North.

Not that he wanted to go far - he was hoping that there was some kind of settlement around Winterfell that he could take command of. The central location of the Stark home would be a great boon to his own enterprise he knew. Any other natural resources of the area he was granted would be greatly appreciated but he wasn't trying to influence his father too much in his decision of what land to give him. All he'd done was give his father a rough area he would prefer.

He'd honestly felt rather guilty about even influencing his father's decision even by that much. He could tell that with that kind of attitude he wasn't going to be much of a Lord but he wasn't planning on being a typical "Lord" or even a typical "Ser".

Movement from his father caught his attention and Jon watched as a small dot on the map slightly south of Winterfell, perhaps less than an hour's ride off the Kingsroad if the terrain was alright. It was a damned good position but there wasn't a settlement there - just a black dot on the map that looked out of place considering there was no name next to it. He glanced up at his father for explanation and Eddard Stark obliged,

"It is not a settlement Jon... It's the location of a source of Iron we have found." he revealed with a small frown, "I was thinking of paying for a small mining settlement. With some of your own funding, as well as what Winterfell can spare, we can set this up as a mining town with fortifications for your... 'Grand idea'. The iron should be of great use to you as well."

Jon's head spun as he thought of the possibilities. Winterfell was going to help bankroll his new settlement because it was in both of their interests to have another source of Iron. And where there was Iron, there was the capability to make steel. And where there were both, blacksmiths thrived. And in this world of theirs, blacksmiths made every other aspect of life in a town or life in a keep easier. Jon nodded slowly,

"I think... I know, this location would be amazing." he admitted with a little grin, "It's the perfect place in The North, and would have room to expand with lumber from a nearby wood... small stream helps. And the Iron... If you grant me this land, father, I will do my utmost to have it up and producing for both Winterfell and my own needs."

His father nodded in agreement even as he looked over the map a little bit more. Jon decided this was probably his dismissal and made to stand. His father's hand caught his wrist and he turned back to see his father looking up at him with no small amount of concern and pride,

"Jon... I am proud of you." he spoke softly, "I was proud of you before any of this happened... before the knighthood, before the tourney and before your decision. When you go back into the feast to make your speech pleasure remember one thing... even with a new last name... you will always be a Stark of Winterfell."

The pause was so brief as to have never occurred at all. One moment Jon was listening to his father, the next he had pulled his father into a tight embrace. He had never been made to feel like a stranger within his father's home, as he knew other bastards were. Jon had always been made to feel like part of the family by the Starks themselves but he was always aware that others didn't feel the same way - even the servants and guards in Winterfell knew about his bastardry and treated him according to the customs of the wider world, not the Starks. So even with the inclusion he felt from his family there was always a part of him that was being reminded, repeatedly, that he was a bastard and was, therefore, lesser than any true-born child of any standing.

So it always meant more to him when his family outright included him amongst their ranks as his father had done now.

He stepped back from the embrace with a thick swallow,

"I just hope I can continue to make you proud father." he admitted, both to himself and his father, "I will make sure that I keep my promise... my oath, from all those years ago. I might have made my decision about what to dedicate my life to but it will not lessen the importance of the oath I swore to you back then."

Eddard made to speak but Jon stopped him with a look,

"Please father... I have known you regretted having me make that promise so young. I know you regret 'holding me' to the promise I made when nothing but an ignorant boy..." he grinned widely, "But I don't regret it. Not at all. That promise has made me the man I am today and I would see it upheld for as long as I draw breath still."

He took note of how his father's smile seemed slightly more 'alive' as some would call it. Glad though he was for having given his father such a cause to smile, Jon himself was rather nervous now. Not for anything to do with his father of course but rather because of what he was about to do - what he was about to announce to the realm as a whole, the whole assembled realm within the giant tent King Robert had erected for the feast of the tournament.

The feast he had taken his father aide from to finalise the decision as to where he would live now.

His father returned to the feast from the small side-tent they had taken over. Jon himself stayed for a moment before decided that he was ready - that he could do this. Closing his eyes briefly, he muttered a quick prayer to the old Gods before exiting the small tent, heading for the feasting tent. He would be the center of attention he knew but he knew that if he wanted to achieve what he had outlined to his father, he would have to do so.

Stepping into the massive feast, Jon had to admit that it looked like everyone was having a roaring good time. Considering King Robert was here, he didn't find it surprising - the king had likely brought a year's yield of Dornish wine or something similar. So it seemed to Jon, someone who didn't really enjoy his wine, that everyone and their mother was deep in their cups. He hovered on the edge of the tent, staying clear of the centre that had been cleared for any dancers, massive tables boxing in the center as everyone feasted and drank.

Apparently they had reached the 'dancing' part of the festivities yet. He caught the eyes of the other Stark children up on the centre table, seated to the left of the royal family. Admittedly, it was the first time that Jon had seen the royal family, beyond the King and Queen themselves. There was a young blonde boy who was chatting animatedly with Bran, a blonde haired girl who looked to be trying her best to be the perfect little lady... even thought she might be a shade younger than Sansa.

Then there was the heir - Prince Joffrey. The boy was blonde like his mother and brother but the smirk on his face made the boy look a lot less likeable than his two siblings. Of course people probably thought he was sour and bitter when he was compared to the whirlwind of energy that was Bran, let alone Rickon. The prince was currently chatting with his uncle Jaime and the two seemed to be finding something very amusing. Jon's father was currently leaning in to speak into the King's ear and Jon couldn't help but notice how this seemed to annoy the Queen but he couldn't imagine why.

The King nodded his massive head before standing to his equally massive height and girth. Feasting lords, ladies, sers and children all turned to their King and the revelry quietened from a dull roar to a quiet level of murmuring. The way the King swayed ever so slightly let Jon know that the King had been at the wine probably harder than anyone else. The King raised his hand for silence, either not realising that the assembly had calmed already or not caring,

"Alright... Alright! We all know that Ser Jon Snow, the Wolf Knight, won the sword and the joust earlier... what a fucking day for him right?" he roared, getting some drunken cheers as Jon was jostled forwards until he was standing in the middle of the assembled guests, "Ah there he is! So! It appears that the champion has something of an announcement to make... so fucking listen quick so we can get back to having fun!"

Another drunken cheer but all eyes turned to him when the King sat down. Jon felt his throat run dry under the attention... give him an angry Sandor Clegane charging him over a crowd any day. He looked to his father for assurance before steeling his own resolve,

"I've not long been a knight - not half as long as some of you. I'm not vain enough to say that I'm the best knight either - I know I probably don't have half the skill of some of you." he admitted to the crowd, trying to butter them up to start, "But I stand before you now... a young knight who sees that his home is unguarded!"

This caught several of the assembly off-guard and there was much muttering. Jon continued,

"The North has men at arms. The North has armies and levies and guardsmen." he admitted, "But it is unguarded. There is no impartial order to help police the lands - the largest of the regions of Westeros. I am a knight of the North and I pledge my sword in guarding it but I am but one man!"

He could tell that others were stirring, already likely seeing where he was going with this,

"Eddard Stark of Winterfell has granted me a keep with a local iron mine... rather than take this as a holdfast and become a bannerman for my father, I have his patronage is founding an order." he declared, "An order primarily made of knights but not fully. Northmen will join but their gods will not allow most of them to be knighted... but I know that any member of my order will be trained as a knight. Will be ordered as knights and will behave as true knights of the Realm! I tell you this now with the aim to ask the knights and the fighters amongst you... will you join me. Will you join me in protecting our realm's north? Will any of you join me in making an impartial order, dedicated to the protection of the land?"

There were a few laughs from some of the drunker attendants and others who thought little of the whole idea. Jon knew he would face those who thought such but he just waited... hoping that some would see merit in his proposal. If nothing else he hoped some young knights might see it as a chance to earn some standing in a new guild or order. Just when he was going to give up hope he noticed a young man, perhaps around Arya's age, stand from where he had been seated at one of the side tables,

"I would join you." the young man declared, "My name is Edric Dayne... and I would join you as your squire if you will have me. And once I am a knight myself, I will continue to serve until I am needed in Starfall."

Jon looked at the younger, man and immediately saw the same greatsword-carrying youth who had been at the joust. The same blue eyes locked with his own and Jon nodded his acceptance,

"Any man who joins me will not forsake his claims." He agreed, "I'm not making a new form of the Nights Watch…"

That got a few chuckles and laughs, the laughs mainly from the drunks who thought it was a funnier joke than it actually was. He didn't expect many would join his cause today – they would be doing so in front of a crowd after all. What he expected was that news of this order would spread fast… soon it wouldn't just be those in attendance who were aware of it. Their brothers, their cousins and their bastards would all come to know of it soon and it to them that this pitch was aimed at – Jon had made a point to declare that you didn't have to be a knight to join. Squires who were now skilled enough to be knights, but not paid enough for their own armour, would likely come in their droves for the chance.

With an iron mine attached to the land he now owned, Jon was certain he would be able to get better prices for those who chose to follow him into this new order. He was ready to accept that no one else would join when a familiar weasel-like man stepped forwards,

"I, Ser Waldis Frey, will join your order." He declared loudly, once again causing the feast attendees to silence themselves, "My squire, and cousin, Wandan Frey would also like to join us."

Well now… Jon had expected that announcing the order here would be a good idea but he already had the first knight in the ranks, besides himself of course, and two squires. Two were Freys but he wasn't going to complain about where people came from – none of them seemed to care that he was a bastard of the North. They were all just joining up for the cause anyway. Seeing that there were no more volunteers, he turned to the King and bowed,

"Your grace."

He stood from the bow and made to leave but King Robert would have none of that it would seem,

"Hold your horses…!" he thundered and Jon turned to him immediately, respectfully bowing his head slightly, "I approve of this order. I'd give it my patronage as well if you'd like! But! No knightly order will be led by someone with a bastard's name… I assume you have chosen a new name for yourself?"

Jon paused for a moment before nodding,

"Aye your Grace… from this day forwards I shall be Jon Whitewolf."


	10. Chapter 10

**I haven't done a 'talking' author's note before but I felt that reaching 99 reviews warranted such a response. Thank you very much for all of the support and advice. In this chapter alone I have taken into consideration a point made by a reviewer and that alone has reshaped the story as a whole. Please, continue to give your opinions and your insights. I will endeavour to reply to more reviews; you take the time to leave them, I will make more of an effort to reply to them. Once again, thank you for the support. Please enjoy.**

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The Spider

Jon Whitewolf... the more he thought about the name, the more he realised he had probably chosen incorrectly. He had been trying to keep some of his Stark heritage in his name, hence the wolf. But he had made a little bit of a mistake it would seem... he had forgotten about the Greystarks. They were the traditional bastard branch of the Stark main family and had ruled near White Harbour many ages ago.

But, like most bastards who were able to form their own House, the Greystarks inverted the sigil of their founding House. So the Grey Direwolf on a White Field of House Stark was inverted in colour for House Greystark. A Sigil with a White Direwolf, the sigil of the extinct House of Bastard-Born traitors to House Stark.

And here he thought that choosing to honour his family's sigil without blatantly taking it as his own would be a good idea. Apparently not. Of course the Greystarks had been extinct for hundreds of years even before the Targaryens showed up. He doubted anyone would really make the connection - he had only made the collection because he was looking over designs for his own sigil and put the white wolf on a grey background... The seamstress and Robb had both pointed out that he was supposed be founding his own House, not trying to bring back the Greystarks.

Having his brother alongside him helped to be honest - the number of Houses in the North alone meant that nearly every colour combination was taken. Thankfully, between the two of them, they knew near enough all of the Houses, active and otherwise. But it was still taking far too long. He lifted his head from the table he'd been resting it up long enough to groan at the colour scheme that the seamstress had put together. Robb looked up from where he too was slumped over a table and sniggered,

"Blue, yellow and black?" he turned to him and Jon scowled at the amused expression his brother sported, "The House of Cold Bumblebee?"

Jon just glared at his brother, not really able to muster up the energy needed to actually snap back at him. They had been here since dawn and it was already past midday - Jon would have had his new squire, Edric Dayne, with him as well but he had told the boy to spend the day with his aunt instead. The Tournament was over now and all that remained was the feasting that the King insisted upon. Still, even the best estimates said they would be camped here for another week or so. Best the kid get to spend some time with his aunt now considering he was coming North with Jon and was very unlikely to actually be coming back before he was a knight himself.

Still... he might have preferred Edric sharing his boredom to Robb's deliberate attempts to antagonise him,

"Remind me again why Bran couldn't help me with this instead?" he asked his brother before turning back to the seamstress, "No yellow please. Northern colours only please."

The elderly lady nodded and began rummaging around for more material to slap together in an attempt to make a sigil and colour scheme for his surcoat. Robb snorted,

"So only the dull colours?" he joked before adding, "Besides, had to be me. Jayne and Sansa are off giggling at knights. Father is attempting to get the King to stop feasting, drinking and whoring QUITE so much. And Bran? Well its Harrenhall Jon - I imagine he'd only enjoy climbing the Red Keep more."

Of course their brother would be off climbing the ancient castle. It was not only a massive castle but it was the only castle in existence that had been burnt by dragons - the stone itself had melted under the heat of their flames. Jon had touched some of the melted stone in his curiosity... it made sense that Bran's sense of curiosity would involve him climbing the thing. He wasn't happy about it but he knew that the young boy would not be changed - could not be changed. So instead he knew that they would be stuck here for now. He sighed a little bit,

"How about red and black?" he asked the seamstress tiredly. There was a pause and silence so he looked up to see that the seamstress had a patient eyebrow raised and Robb was smirking, "What?"

Robb shook his head slightly,

"Nothing... as long as you don't mind people asking about how your rebellion goes." he joked before adding, "Jon Blackfyre."

What? Oh gods... Jon checked the colours again before groaning. Black and Red... Targaryen colours and Blackfyre colours. Of course people would link him to the Blackfyres considering he was a bastard and they were the bastard branch of the Targaryens. He groaned in frustration,

"Can I not just have... white and black?" he asked honestly, "A white wolf on a black field - that works right?"

His brother shrugged a little bit, which he took for consent until the seamstress spoke up,

"Black and white sunburst - House Karstark."

Jon's head hit the table he was sitting at again and Robb just laughed at his misfortune. He was honestly getting sick to death of this. Was this what being a landed knight was like? Was it just about gritting your teeth to live through these annoyances? He didn't know but if so he might just commit only to his knightly order at this rate.

"What about silver and black?"

The voice had a sly, simpering, quality to it that Jon couldn't say he'd ever heard when speaking to any of his father's men or bannermen. Or anybody he had met at this tourney to be honest. He turned to the new arrival even as the seamstress set to work with the new colours. Jon was very surprised to see a very finely dressed, slightly portly but by no means grossly fat, as the King was. It seemed more that this man lived comfortably and did very little work for himself… although that could quite easily be used to describe the King now that Jon thought about it. Still, it looked more natural on this man. The baldness also appeared to be a choice rather than merely something that had happened over time.

Of course Jon was a little bit confused by his silky clothes, they seemed to have been tailored for the man almost entirely for the purpose of hiding his hands inside of his sleeves. Not many trusted people who kept their hands hidden like that and Jon was one of them – he was immediately rather wary about this newcomer.

"Silver and black... I've never heard of a House with those colours. I shall make a sample."

The seamstress went to work almost as soon as the suggestion had left the man's mouth, without consulting with Jon. He was a little annoyed at first - he was the one who had to wear those colours - but only until he realised he rather liked the colours. He still wasn't certain about the man who had given the suggestion though. It was hard to take a man's measure from the clothes he wore but if he had to judge this man based on his appearance... John would have to say that this man seemed the very definition of a sneak.

A glance at Robb let Jon know that he brother wasn't exactly impressed with the new arrival either. Jon decided to speak before Robb's Northern sensibilities got the worst of him. Jon had the same sensibilities but he was by nature quieter than Robb, so less likely to say something to offend. He doubted Robb would keep this trait for long but for now a perfumed man in silk? Yeah, he imagined that might annoy Robb enough for him to say something he shouldn't,

"My thanks." he nodded to the man, who bowed prettily. Jon honestly didn't think even Sansa could have pulled off a more perfect bow, "May I ask who I am addressing? We can hardly hold a civil conversation without names - I am Ser Jon Whitewolf. And this is my half-brother, Robb Stark."

Robb seemed to have curbed his initial reaction to the man because rather than making a comment he just nodded respectfully to the perfumed man. Their silken visitor smiled and Jon had only one word to describe the entire motion - sly,

"A pleasure my Lords." he greeted the two of them before speaking again, addressing Jon rather than Robb. This was still a novelty for Jon but he tried not to look too surprised. Judging by the way the smile twitched slightly he had failed to hide the surprise fast enough, "Ser Jon... It would be a deaf man who has not heard your name recently. Your announcement has the entire assembly all a tremble! As it happens, I am far from a deaf man. I am Varys."

Honestly, Jon didn't have a single bloody clue who this man was. The name didn't sound like it belonged within the Seven Kingdoms so the man might be from the Free Cities... but then what was such a man doing at the Kings tournament? Robb seemed to know more than him as he raised an eyebrow,

"Father has spoken of you... are you not a member of the Small Council?"

A member of the small council wanted to speak to him? It reeked of lunacy to Jon but the man, Varys, just tittered to him before nodding respectfully to Robb with that same, sly, smile plastered on his pale face,

"Correct Lord Robb... I am on King Robert's council." he admitted evenly, "I am here to discuss giving Ser Jon aid with his new knightly order."

Well, this was getting interesting. Jon raised an eyebrow but didn't speak, he just motioned for Varys to continue,

"I am to understand that you will be pursuing the King's Justice in the North against wildlings, rebels, raiders and rogues?"

That was the gist of it. He nodded in agreement so Varys pressed onwards,

"My position on the council as well as many... acquaintances, afford me a certain level of awareness throughout the Realm. The King has requested I give you access to some of my information - specifically information of any threats to The North of the Kingdom."

It made a certain kind of sense to Jon. King Robert was in charge of all Seven Kingdoms, he needed all the help he could get to manage all of their security needs, let alone all the other needs of the realms. Jon hadn't expected any help from the King - just saying that he supported the idea was good enough for Jon. That alone would have given his new order a little bit more weight but to be given information about threats to The North by one of the council members?

That was support that was a lot more tangible.

He also, wasn't foolish enough to think that this sly little man would be doing it out of the goodness of his heart. Jon frowned slightly before deciding to voice his concerns,

"Your aid would be greatly appreciated... but I doubt it comes without charge."

There was a slight pause where Robb looked at him as if he had declared he was marrying an Other. Northerners took each other at their word based on the strength of their honour. Jon had practiced this his whole life, as had Robb. The difference here was that Robb would have made the mistake of assuming others would value the honour of telling the truth as much as a Northerner. Jon didn't trust this Varys as far as he could throw him,

"Oh nothing so vulgar as coin, I assure you."

Of course. Jon didn't have a lot of coin so he never considered that would be what this man, or even what the Crown, wanted.

"Merely a favour."

And there it was.

A favour.

Even Robb watched the small man with a little more suspicion on hearing this. Coin was easy - it was usually a static amount too. Easy to owe. But a favour? A favour could take many forms and could be far more costly than coin,

"And what would you ask of me, Lord Varys?"

The small man simply smiled right back,

"Have no fear Ser Jon - it is a simple matter and I and my Lord Hand would see it done within the next week."

Well, that was slightly better as far as Jon was concerned. In one manner at least. It was better because the favour would be used up very quickly - it wouldn't be something to hang over him forever. The downside was that it had become ever so slightly more complicated. And by 'ever so slightly' he actually meant that it was now more complicated than he imagined a woman's mind was.

The Hand of the King, Jon Arryn.

Technically the second most powerful man in the Seven Kingdoms, second to only the King. And he, through Varys, wanted a favour from him, Ser Jon Whitewolf. A bastard of the North trying to do something for the North's protection. He swallowed slowly, suddenly feeling rather apprehensive about the favour he was going to be asked for,

"I would know what simple matter it is that you would ask of me before I agree."

Jon and Varys both knew what the answer would be. Unless Lord Arryn was to ask him to do something completely outrageous, the offer was simply too good for Jon to pass up. Ready access to information about threats to The North, to his family? Jon could not afford to pass that up and Lords Varys and Arryn probably already knew that about him. Varys smiled that same smile,

"My Lord Hand would simply ask that you take someone with you and include them in your order." he declared, gesturing slightly with a hand, "Nothing too much. The boy you will take with you is of similar age to yourself and is a baseborn bastard for a... very important person, shall we say?"

Ah.

Already his order was being used as dumping ground for bastards who were deemed too 'potentially useful' to send to The Wall. If a Lord had a bastard it was a cause of shame... right up until all of his respectable heirs were dead. Then a bastard could be legitimised by order of the King and could stand to inherit. Many bastards were sent to The Wall but many bastards of Lords were kept nearby in case all other viable heirs were unable to inherit. His order would give those bastards a chance to learn combat and command without having to forsake any potential claim on their father's titles.

Jon knew that this kind of thing was bound to happen, that his order would be strengthened for it even. But it still annoyed him that his order was being seen as some kind of method of keep high-born bastards within reach should their fathers have need of them. He had hoped that he wouldn't have so many of those - he had hoped that men would come to the order because they saw there a chance to better themselves and The North. But he knew, deep down... men like Lord Arryn would use his order as a place to send those they couldn't afford to simply discard.

And the offer, as he had thought to himself before, was simply too good to pass up. Jon took a breath before nodding,

"Of course - always happy to welcome someone to the ranks of my new order." he agreed, holding his hand out for Varys to clasp and seal the deal, "And what is the name of this... recruit?"

Varys clasped his hand very briefly. It seemed the man knew this was traditionally how deals were struck in the North but wasn't a fan of the method himself. Jon noted his hands were softer than they had any right to be but he ignored it for now. Felt like the man had never done an honest day's work in his life... and this coming from a man raised to hold weapon in hand rather than any tool. Varys quickly hid his hands away in his sleeves again,

"I'm sure that Gendry Waters will enjoy your company Ser Jon."

A high-born bastard from Kings Landing huh? He nodded in agreement once more and Varys bowed to Jon, and then Robb, once more before leaving the seamstresses tent. Robb frowned,

"You have accepted the aid of a very slippery man there brother."

Jon looked to Robb and he didn't need to say anything. They both knew what kind of man Lord Varys was, they had the measure of him at a glance, let alone when he had opened his mouth. But they both knew that Jon had little choice but to accept what he was offered. The information would save countless lives in the long run and Jon would gladly sell himself to a man like Varys if it meant to the protection of The North; the protection of his family.

Robb knew the truth of the matter too it seemed – there was no recrimination in his tone. He had accepted what Jon himself had accepted and both of them knew that they hadn't really a choice in the matter. The seamstress coughed and Jon returned his attention to her. The old lady seemed rather please with herself,

"My lords… I think you will find this a pretty sight."

She held out a sample for Jon to take. She had worked very hard during his discussion with Varys and had actually made the sample into a miniature sigil for himself. On a field of darkest black, a silver direwolf howled silently. Jon couldn't help but smile at it, imagining how he would look when adorned with it,

"It's perfect."


	11. Chapter 11

**AN - Sorry for the delay. By way of an apology, a two chapter update. The second chapter is also longer than usual. Enjoy.**

Troubled Waters

Jon was practicing with Ser Waldis when he spotted Varys around the edge of the training ground. He wasn't distracted enough to let Waldis get a free hit in with his blunted sword. He dragged his attention away from Varys but he was already moving out of the way of his opponent's strike. Completing his dodge, the flat of Jon's blade slapped the back of the other knight's helmet.

Waldis laughed as he removed his helmet, his squire rushing up to collect it with a skin of wine in hand,

"I swear it Ser Jon... You have the most uncanny reflexes I have ever seen on a man!" he joked as he handed his squire his helm and drank from the wine skin, "You've the battle presence of a veteran I'd dare say."

Of course the praise was welcome but Jon knew that it was rather unfounded. Ser Waldis wasn't much older than Jon himself so hadn't been able to fight during the Greyjoy Rebellion. The man had no experience in war but, then again, neither did Jon. He had experience chasing bandits away from the Wolfswood and had a skirmish against raiders to his name.

Every other fight he had ever been in took place with blunted training weapons. Or Tourney weapons. It was kind of humbling to admit that some of the hardest fighting he had ever done in his life had been at this tournament. Fighting the raiders had been so sudden that it didn't have time to be hard - it was over quick and the battle-vision had wrapped around him almost instantly. No such luck in a tournament it seemed.

He smirked ever so slightly at Waldis,

"My thanks Ser... but what would we know of veterans?" he joked, the Frey joining in as Jon's own squire came forward and collected his helm. He took the skin of water from his squire, drinking a little before handing it back, "Thank you Edric."

His squire seemed to be warring with something inside of himself but he didn't move. Seeing his squire's distress he waved his hand in a manner to suggest he was allowing Edric to speak,

"Ser... if it pleases your Ser, call me Ned."

Ned huh? He knew it was also his father's nickname but he had never even thought to use it. His father was Lord Eddard Stark, the Warden of the North and the man Jon respected above all others... it seemed a little wrong to address his father by such a name. Of course he had no such reservations about his squire - it might help the slightly awkward young man adapt to his new duties a little bit,

"I'll refer to you as Ned but when it's just us - or other members of the order - just call me Jon alright?" he requested with a little grin, "I heard that the Dornish were supposed to be more liberal than the rest of Westeros?"

This seemed to be what Edric had been wanting to request - the freedom to act more casually around him. Almost as soon as he had issued the 'order', Edric visibly relaxed and shot back a cocky little grin,

"Liberal? That's the politest way I've ever heard it said since leaving Dorne." he admitted, much to the amusement of the two Freys and Jon himself, "Well, we're at least more 'liberal' than the people of the North. My sister said the term 'frigid'...?"

Both Freys, knight and squire, laughed at this joke while Jon just smirked, pushing Edric's shoulder playfully but still almost pushing the smaller man over,

"Laugh it up Ned - You're going to be experiencing the North first hand." he smirked wider, "I can't wait to see what you make of snow."

Edric snorted right back,

"I lived close to the mountains Jon... I know about snow."

This time both the Freys and Jon laughed at his response and Edric was rather surprised. Waldis took another drink from the wine skin,

"Boy, you don't know snow." he joked with a little smirk, "The snows in the Riverlands during the last winter were several feet deep. North of the Neck? I'd say the snow fell deep enough to burry someone of your height, honestly."

Jon didn't remember much about the last winter. He knew it had lasted a few years and he knew that it had happened when he was very young, not long after Robert's Rebellion but ending before the Greyjoy Rebellion. He vaguely recalled heavier snow than he was used to as a child and being locked up inside the castle.

He took another drink of the water from his skin,

"By the time winter rolls around again we'll be ready don't worry. "he assured both Ned and the Freys, "I might be a bastard Stark but I was raised a Stark. I know the words and I know the warnings, the preparations... you'll only freeze up a little bit little Dornish."

Edric glared at him but Jon could see there wasn't anything too malicious about the glare. IF anything, he thought the younger man was planning some kind of revenge for making him look a little foolish in front of the Freys. So long as he didn't go too far, Jon had no concerns with Edric looking for a small measure of vengeance so long as it didn't get out of hand.

All revelry aside, Jon turned to Lord Varys, who had been waiting patiently at the edge of the training area. Standing behind Varys but towering over the sly Lord was a dark haired youth with bright blue eyes that seemed to be darting around to take in the whole scene before him. Jon approached and the youth locked gazes with him before looking down.

A low-born it would seem... but the youth had some resentment towards people like Jon and the others it seemed. It seemed that this Gendry Waters had some issues with knights and Lords and heirs... people who generally looked down on the smallfolk with contempt. Well, they did in the South as far as Jon knew. The people in the North tended to be better protected considering they were perhaps the only real commodity for several areas of The North - didn't really make sense to abuse the smallfolk when they're the ones who hunt and farm so that high and low born don't freeze or starve to death during the Winter.

Jon stopped in front of Varys, making sure to look at the Lord rather than the tall youth behind him,

"Lord Varys."

The tittering laugh again... it still made Jon feel uncomfortable but there was little he could do about it. It reminded him that this sneak of a Lord had managed to strong-arm Jon into accepting a new member to his own order. And it didn't even look like the youth had even the slightest interest in joining! He was already starting to be annoyed by the young man's attitude but he'd deal with it later.

"Ser Jon Whitewolf... I present to you, Gendry Waters."

The Youth, confirmed to be Gendry, looked up and caught Jon's eye. There was a lot of resentment in those eyes... good. The young man had to have something to hold onto and if it was his resentment then so be it. Because if he didn't, Jon would beat the young man black and blue in the training ring and then, when combat was upon them, Gendry Waters would die. He needed something to drive him forwards - something that would be the fire in his belly during combat.

Jon had his promise to keep him going - his burning need to protect his family and their people. He imagined the Freys had a desire to prove themselves against odds so their family, and the realm, would respect them. Edric, he imagined, wanted to be respected before he took on his lordship. But Gendry Waters?

He was an angry youth who hated the world and his lot in it. If he didn't hold onto that, or changed his outlook on life entirely, he would die and without anything in his life changing. Of course Jon wasn't about to say this to the man he had just met,

"Well met, Gendry."

Bastard stared at bastard and neither of them blinked for a few moments. Gendry blinked first before lowering his gaze, as if just remembering that he was addressing someone of a higher station than him so was supposed to show some deference,

"M'Lord."

Jon looked at the other bastard, who was perhaps the same age as him, before snorting in amusement. Gendry looked incensed for a moment before surprised as Jon rested a hand on his shoulder,

"None of that Gendry. Ser if you must, Jon because I insist."

This seemed to surprised Gendry a bit but Varys just lifted a hand to his mouth and tittered a little. Jon had come to the conclusion that absolutely nothing surprised Varys. And if it did he imagined that would be a sign that the white walkers were on their way back and the world was about to end. He gestured for Gendry to come over and the other bastard slowly moved to stand beside himself rather than Varys,

"Lord Varys... thank you for helping Gendry join my order." he thanked the other man with a slight bow, which was returned by Varys, "I hope our partnership will be a long and fruitful one."

Varys tittered again and Jon had to resist the urge to punch the man for making such an annoying noise all the time. The eunuch nodded in agreement,

"So long as you protect and serve the realm, you may count on my aid." he assured Jon with a sly little smile, "I fear the realm may soon need defending from many foes."

Now why did he actually believe this eunuch lord? For some reason when the tittering man told him that the realm would soon face threats, he believed him. Whether those threats came from the eunuch himself or from other, outside, influences, he didn't know. But he did know one thing,

"You needn't worry Lord Varys - I will defend the realm from any threat." he made sure to catch the sly man's eye at this, "You can always depend on that Lord Varys."

The Eunuch stared at him for a few moments longer before turning and leaving without a word. Jon knew his 'threat' wasn't too frightening considering he was the master of a knightly order of... five people. But if the current trend continued he might well have more knights than he knew what to do with soon. He might have to invest in a master-at-arms in the future but right now he was comfortable managing four other people. He turned to Gendry,

"I assume you have a trade."

A bastard boy like Gendry with the level of muscle he could see in the boy's arms? No way had he been trained in combat considering he hadn't been acknowledged like Jon had. That left some kind of trade as the best option for how the other bastard had gained his mass. Hopefully it was that anyway. The alternative was that Gendry was some kind of cutthroat or the like.

"I was apprenticed to a blacksmith in Kings Landing."

Well, that was both interesting and rather useful. He nodded a little bit as he brought Gendry over to the rest of 'the order',

"Gentlemen. Gendry Waters has joined our ranks. He was apprenticed to be a blacksmith." he smiled faintly, "I think we could do with a blacksmith. Of course any blacksmith of ours would also be able to hold his own in a fight."

Gendry seemed surprised by this. He likely thought he was going to be 'given' to this new knightly order to be their blacksmith and nothing else. No offense to the young man but Jon wasn't about to put the lives of his men in the hands of an apprentice blacksmith without first checking the quality of his work. But either way he would be taught to fight. That way if he was a good blacksmith and stayed at the keep he wouldn't need guards for himself. And if he wasn't a good blacksmith then he could still be trained to be a fighter.

Jon wasn't practiced at assessing men for combat but he could honestly say Gendry looked like he could pack a punch with whatever weapon he chose to use. A hammer of some kind might be good for the young man - he was bound to be used to wielding hammers on some scale and hopefully that familiarity would translate well to any hammer-based weapon he used. Waldis smiled a little bit before reaching out and clasping Gendry's forearm. The younger man seemed surprised by the sudden show of acknowledgement from the older knight,

"Well met Gendry. I am Ser Waldis Frey." he gestured to his squire, who waved awkwardly, "This is my kinsman and squire."

Jon looked to Edric and his squire seemed to be regarding Gendry with a little bit of apprehension,

"Edric Dayne. Ned to my friends." he greeted the blacksmith bastard frostily, "Heir to Starfall."

There was a pause before Gendry turned to Jon with a bemused expression,

"How come he's the only one to talk like he's got a stick up his arse?"

Try as he might, Jon was unable to stop himself from snorting in amusement. Waldis and his squire openly laughed as Edric fumed a little, his face reddening. Jon shrugged a little bit,

"I suppose it's because he's the only one here who actually stands to inherit the lands and titles of his family."

Jon didn't because he was a bastard and, now, had his own family name now. The Freys? Well they had enough family that it would take a localised plague to bump Waldis up in the line of succession. Edric was the one who was basically Lord already - he just needed to be trained up a bit and he'd be ready to assume control of his family's lands.

Said heir was not amused in the slightest,

"I happen to just have more manners than yourself you oaf."

Instead of bristling, Gendry just laughed loudly,

"You curse like the little lord you are!" he declared, finding this very amusing before patting Edric on the shoulder with a big hand. The force behind the pat almost knocked Edric over but Jon could see that it hadn't been done with the same intent. Seemed that Gendry didn't know his own strength, "I think you and me are gunna have fun Ned."

Edric spluttered a little bit but seemed to be warming to the boisterous young bastard if the small smile was any indication,

"I said my friends call me Ned, you fool."

Gendry just grinned,

"Aye, you did." he agreed before glancing back at Jon, "So I gotta start on fighting right? What's the first thing I gotta know?"

Jon couldn't help but smirk slightly as he remembered what the Winterfell Master-At-Arms had told him when he had first started training with a sword,

"Stick em with the pointy end."


	12. Chapter 12

**AN - The scenario becomes even more of an AU. Enjoy.**

Salt of the Earth and Sea

Two years since Harrenhall, two years since Jon had formally begun his order 'The Lords of Winter'.

The name itself had come about due to Bran's questions about the order. After Jon had told him the reasoning behind its formation his brother had pointed out that it was like he and his fellows were looking after all of the North. The Lords part had come later, when new recruits meant that more than a few of their number would actually be Lords in the future.

His earlier prediction had come true it seemed.

Half of their number were bastards of highborn lords, sent to be trained in combat and knighthood, just in case they needed to be legitimised in the event the 'real' heirs died. The other half of their number, however, were true-born sons of Lords who were there to learn the ways of Knighthood and combat in general. It helped the Lords of the North that Jon in no way insisted that the knights under his banner swear before the Seven - As far as Jon was concerned, the knights he commanded could swear to whatever gods they liked.

That decision had made him rather unpopular with Septons and Septas as far as he was aware. He didn't see a lot of them in the North though she he didn't really fret about their opinions as even now there was a steady trickle of men travelling up the Neck with the distinct goal of becoming a member of his order. They did so because of his order's steadily climbing prestige from numerous bandit-hunts that Lord Vary's information had netted them. Their holdfast had changed a great deal to meet their needs as well - most notably what had once been a lonely looking tower, was now a proud keep with a 8 foot wall of Northern stone. The stone had been taken from the iron mine they had expanded to reach a peak in production. A small village had sprung up in front of the keep's main gate as well, the family of the miners, the smiths and the farmers, all coming together in this infant settlement.

But other than running near constant drills and long 'rangings' against bandits, nothing much had changed for Jon Whitewolf.

Except for the white direwolf that followed him everywhere of course.

On the way back to The North from Harrenhall, the Stark family had stumbled across the Direwolf mother and her litter. Of course one direwolf south of The Wall was rare... now there were six south of it. The mother had, unfortunately, passed away but her cubs had been taken in by the Stark family rather readily. Jon himself had spotted the runt, Ghost, at the back and taken him along with him to his little homestead. The Keep had become the headquarters of the very small knightly order... with the rapidly growing white direwolf. Jon himself had grown a little more as well, his continued training with other skilled warriors and frequent combat against bandits and the like.

All in all, the past two years had held nothing but growth for the Lords of Winter and its village. Of course the smallfolk had decided that the 'best' name for the little village was the rather presumptuous "Johnstown". He hadn't been consulted about the use of his name but was flattered none the less. His order, which had started with just five members (himself included) had shot up to just shy of five hundred members. From bastards with no skill yet to knights and warriors of some skill and renown.

But why the two years had been most kind to his order, they had not been kind to the realm.

Theon Greyjoy, one of Jon's most hated people in the world, had escaped Winterfell during the tournament at Harrenhall. He had abused the trust Lord Stark had placed on him and run back to the Iron Islands. Without his only living son being held captive any more, Balon Greyjoy had begun to make more aggressive moves. His fleet was apparently being rebuilt and his men readied for reaving the likes of which hadn't been seen since Harren the Black. Already the Westerlands were gearing up for war; their coast was abundant in the trees used for Ironborn longboat construction and their populous slightly richer than the rest of the kingdom - and that was just the smallfolk.

There had been small raids along the western coast of the North but nothing that couldn't be repelled easily by the bannermen of Lord Eddard Stark. Last Jon had heard, the Mormont women had set up a competition with the Lords of the western coast to see how man Ironborn they had killed. Mostly harmless fun for now but Jon had received a raven from his lord father advising him that it may escalate to a repetition of the Greyjoy Rebellion very quickly.

Jon looked down at the same scroll on his desk, his own solar much smaller than his father's but much more personal. The fire was alit and Ghost's massive frame was at rest before it. He glanced down at the scroll again before sighing slightly, stroking a thin scar across his chin. That one he had received during a wildling raid on Umber lands - which he had been travelling to with a small band of knights to wipe out a small bandit infestation. He pulled his hand away, aware that it was becoming something of a habit to stroke it. Instead he wandered closer to the fire, his hand outstretched to his side.

Ghost barely had to lift his head to enjoy the gentle scratches behind the ears. The Direwolf had been growing for two years now and was already about double the size of a regular wolf. Not only had that but Jon trained him well; cuddly to friend and deadly to foe. He stared into the fires as he continued to pet Ghost, thinking about what the brewing conflict within the realm would mean for his Order.

There weren't any members of his order who hailed from the Iron Islands but some did hail from the Westerlands and from the western shoreline of the North. They were already getting more than a little bit distressed about the raids and had vocalised their distress to their fellow knights. There were murmurs throughout the order that they should become involved in the Second Greyjoy Rebellion - something that had not officially begun yet, even though all signs pointed to it.

He had listened to their arguments and he could truly understand. Unlike, say, the Nights Watch, the members of his order did not forsake all titles and family ties. He had a Westerling knight, at least three squires and knights from 'important families' within Lannisport and, of course, Lancel Lannister himself. The 'Golden Knight', as the others jokingly called him, had been the biggest supporter of the order joining the war. Made sense - it was the lands of his family that were being raided, however lightly at the moment, and it would be their lands that burned if, when, the Ironborn started their second rebellion.

Would he just sit by if it was The North that was under attack? The answer was obviously no - and neither would his order. They were charged with bringing the Kings Justice to the North and protecting it from threats both foreign and domestic. But if the order was stationed in, say, the Reach? Would he push to defend the North?

Of course he would.

His order was supposed to stay neutral in internal wars of the realm - No knightly order was able to declare for one side or another by old laws - but he knew that the men under his command didn't want to. And there would be no men in the realm, save for the most duty-stricken, who would see his mobilising of the order to war as anything but an extension of their mission, of their purpose.

The majority of his order's members were either knights or squires. Some of the Northmen were just here to be warriors, without all the trappings of Knighthood, but all of those from South of the Neck were here either as knights or to become knights. And protecting the innocent was something all knights swore to do - The Ironborn seemingly lived to deal death and despair to the innocent. It could, very easily, be argued that the Ironborn were the enemies of all true knights of the realm. He would have to remember to send ravens to the only other two knightly orders he knew of; The Order of The White Rose (Unsurprisingly in The Reach) and The Order of Stone (the knightly order of the Vale).

He hoped he would be able to convince them of the same thing he had convinced himself of. Otherwise his order's actions would likely be condemned. Not that it would stop people joining from The North, at least, and it certainly wouldn't gain them any shame from the King. The decision was, in Jon's mind, clear but he would not be the only one to make it. Though he had command of the order in all things, he had changed the traditional structure so that any change in the Order's course would be agreed upon by the Order as a whole.

There was a knock at his door.

"Enter."

Edric Dayne entered with Jon's sword in hand. No doubt his attentive squire had finished its repairs. He collected it gratefully, attaching it to his side as he took the chance to look his squire over.

'Young Ned', as he was known, was rather serious for a Dornishman but none in the order would question either his honour or his skill. The young man was a fine warrior with both regular sword and greatsword, heir to a noble house and possessed the right temperament. Jon had offered to knight his friend only a year of squiring - the younger man was truly a gifted warrior after all. Edric had refused, stating he would only accept a knighthood when he was worthy. Jon had deemed the young man worthy on several occasions and had tried to knight him four times since - each time Edric had denied for the same reason.

It had become something of a tradition.

"Is today the day I shall knight you Edric?"

The small smirk was sign enough that Edric had been expecting the remark,

"Not today Ser. Not until I am worthy."

Worthy of a knighthood? Somehow Jon doubted that was truly what Edric meant. It was no secret amongst the order that the greatsword that was ever-present on his back was Dawn. Edric had never drawn it in battle or training; only ever drawing it for basic maintenance. Basic because it was similar in nature to his father's Ice. The thing was wicked sharp. But, unlike Ice, Dawn could only be wielded by the greatest Knight of House Dayne. Jon had deduced a long time ago that Edric was struggling to be worthy of wielding Dawn.

Why he felt he would grow worthy here, Jon didn't know. But he decided he could wait for that particular answer a little longer. He once again checked he was presentable before addressing Edric,

"Edric, summon our brothers in arms." he instructed his squire, "It is time we discussed if we should take part in the war that we all know is coming."

Edric nodded respectfully before leaving to carry out the command. Jon sighed a little bit, scratching Ghost behind the ears when the massive wolf licked at his hand in a comforting manner. The decision that the order would come to was not his alone to make... but he knew well enough that the majority would vote whatever he voted just because he was voting it. Others would be at least mostly swayed as well. The duty he had to his men was not something Jon took lightly and some had questioned his decisions - called craven - that had skirted away from more 'glory' for a safer option.

But this...?

If he led his brothers to war he knew that many would never come back. Many would never return to the order and perhaps more still would never see their homes ever again. His father was right - War was a hellish thing that men seemed incapable of fully leaving behind. And he hadn't even SEEN war yet! Of course he had seen battle - he had been leading men into pitched battles for the better part of two years now. But those battles tended to be against bandits and wildlings - neither of which could ever provide the same kind of fight that an army of Ironborn would be able to.

Leaving his chambers, with Ghost by his side, he followed the increasing volume to the main hall of the keep. Three large tables arranged in a U shape with the fire in the middle... and already it seemed that the polarising opinions were fraying tempers.

"... and I'll be damned before I let those fucking squids get away with what they have done!" Waldis was shouting across the hall, "Fuck being neutral - those scum killed my Kin in a raid near Lannisport! Fuck them!"

There was a roar of approval from much of the hall. Lancel Lannister patted Waldis on the back in support and, perhaps surprisingly (or not depending on your perspective), Harrison Karstark took up the call,

"The only good squid is a dead one!" he agreed, "Our fathers went to war against them in their first, failed, rebellion and now they're trying their luck again because Baby-Squid is back... well fuck'em I say! They hit us in the face and expect us to just back down? Fuck them! I say we head to Pike and tear down their fucking towers!"

The same roar of approval for that sentiment meant that Jon was able to take his seat in the middle table between Edric and Gendry Waters. He turned to Gendry, who looked bored. Except, because he looked like a cross between a giant and a blacksmith, it looked like a small house was actually bored rather than a man. If there had been any doubt in Jon's mind who the other man's father was, it had disappeared quickly. Shave away the beard and the fat from King Robert and you were left with Gendry Waters. He even wielded a warhammer like his father. Of course Gendry had refused to hear anyone's theories about his father - He was much more content to just be Gendry Waters, The Bull of the Barrowlands. So named for his distinctive Bull-helm and his impressive conduct against a band of outlaws in the Barrowlands.

He heard the argument continuing but needed some context,

"Gendry." he spoke, immediately gaining the large man's attention, "What is the lay of the land here Gendry? Who supports what?"

The larger man shrugged once, glancing back out at the hall,

"Waldis, Harrison and Golden-Shit all support going to war, if there is one." he said with a frown, "Opposition? Just Mallister and Wendwater."

Ser Devon Mallister was a cousin of the main Mallister line of Seaguard and perhaps one of the most honour-bound men that Jon had ever met. And that was including his father, honestly. The knight was about the same age as his father so maybe it was a generational thing? Likely the older knight had been a part of the first rebellion and wanted nothing to do with it.

Ser Jason Wendwater was a legitimised bastard of the Wendwater line a few years Jon's senior but still in his prime. The young man was here to prove his worth before returning to his family in an attempt to take control of the House. His House had only one female heir and didn't want to die out so it was likely they would accept him. He was the absolute typical model of a Crownlander knight and lordling - he swore loyalty to the King alone. It appeared that he was about to voice his own position,

"King Robert has no need of us in this fight!" he declared fiercely from where he was sat, "We should only ride out to a war if our King commands us to do so!"

Scoffs from most of the room - even from Ser Devon,

"King Robert would have the realm believe he could charge over the Iron Islands and kill them all himself - he won't 'ask' for us to interfere." the Mallister knight declared before continuing, "Nor should he! We are a knightly order and our purpose is to preserve the King's Peace in the North. We are not charged with mounting invasions of pathetic little islands or going to war!"

It seemed the older knight was more than a little bit bitter about the idea of going to war with the Iron Islands. And perhaps a touch bitter about King Robert? Strange. The man wasn't a known Targaryen-Sympathiser. Perhaps the two were connected - his bitterness towards the Ironborn and the King? Worth mentioning in a raven of Lord Varys perhaps? No. No, even if he was a Targaryen-loyalist there wasn't too much damage the older knight could do. He was mostly here to train younger knights after all.

Jon took a drink of wine even as the shouting began to get louder. He savoured the wine for a moment as an excuse to collect his thoughts. When he had decided what it was he wanted to say, he opened his mouth to speak but paused when he noticed Samwell Tarly rushing on over with a scroll in hand. The Tarly boy had joined the order on his father's orders in an attempt to 'make a man of him'. So far all he did was the duties of a maester - just without the chain. Hence the scroll from the ravens. Jon took the scroll with a smile at the shy boy but the smile fell as he noticed the unnaturally pale look on Sam's face.

He hastily opened the scroll and read its contents.

Jon scanned the message several times, hoping a mistake had been made. Seeing, for the fifth time, that the message had not changed, Jon took a deep breath before closing a fist on the small scroll. His hands were shaking. It took a concentrated effort of will to still them as he stood. The arguments seemed to stop as Jon stood from where he had been seated before. As the arguments all began to die down, Jon gripped the scroll even tighter in his hand. His knuckles felt like they were going to pop with the amount of force that he was putting onto them just by balling his fist,

"Brothers in arms." He greeted them simply, not feeling the need for fancier words and not having the mood to make them genuine in either case, "Our decision has been made for us, it seems."

There was muttering at that but Jon took great care to glare at every speaking man individually before continuing only when the muttering had ceased,

"The Ironborn have attacked."

Of course there would be no stopping the voices at this announcement.

There were many questions being fired through the air by angry voices but the main question seemed to be more along the lines of 'where'. Not many people here were under the delusion that the Ironborn were going to be content with light raids. Not when they had their heir back, not when they were high on their drive for revenge. It had always been an open secret that Theon Greyjoy's 'fostering' was the only thing stopping the Ironborn returning to their old ways. Their last rebellion had been squashed but King Robert had made an error in judgement it seemed – he had not wiped out House Greyjoy to the last, miserable excuse for a man.

He nodded to Gendry, who acknowledged the unspoken commanded and smashed both of his massive hands on the table. The rather loud noise gathering enough attention for Jon to once again control the floor as it were,

"We knew this was coming. We knew they've been preparing for a long time for their revenge." He reminded his knights before dropping the scroll to the table, "They have attacked many different port towns. The Shield Islands are under attack – we do not expect them to hold currently. Lannisport has been sacked. Seaguard is in the midst of a battle. Bear Island…"

He had to resist the growl that grew in his chest at having to say it out loud. Ghost had no such reservations, growing and barring his teeth even as he paced behind his master. Jon snapped his control back down tightly on his emotions,

"Bear Island has been heavily raided. Dacey Mormont of House Mormont has been captured and the town burnt down."

No question, that piece of news had caused him to seethe with anger. The entire realm was under attack now – the North too. There was no question any more – his order was duty-bound to repel the invaders of the North. And Jon would make sure that they would do so by sending the squids back to their stupid fucking god. He would make sure that not a single Ironborn ship managed to leave the North. His emotions were bubbling up and it took him quite a lot of effort to gain a proper control on them again.

His order had descended into chaos already – shouting and hurried commands to squires to ready armour. Edric, he noticed absently, had already left. No doubt he had gone to prepare not only Jon's armour but his own. Instead he refocused on his knights,

"My brothers!" he roared, catching their undivided attention once again as he snarled in anger at the audacity of the Ironborn to raid the lands under his protection, "The Ironborn attack the land we are sworn to protect… it is our duty to drive them back! It will be our honour to best them in combat! And I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that it will be our fucking pleasure to send the scum right back into the arms of their fucking stupid drowned god!"

A roar of approval from the men as Jon noticed Edric had returned with some rather symbolic items that would be needed for this. He snatched up one of his gauntlets from his squire. They were good quality steel, functional and without flair. The only unique thing about both of his gauntlets was that the fingers were pointed, to be the sharp claws of a direwolf. He held the gauntlet high for all to see,

"The gauntlet has been thrown!" he declared, dropping his own gauntlet onto the table in front of him to cries of approval as he began to rite of a Knightly Order officially being called to war by its King. That hadn't happened officially yet but the scroll had said the King had ordered resistance by any man or woman. The Lords of Winter would just be better armed and trained than most that particular message was aimed towards, "We will rise to the challenge that has been issued to us!"

He took up the arming sword that they kept for ceremonial purposes as Edric unwrapped a standard. It was the Greyjoy's yellow kraken on a sea of black. Hissing and booing followed almost immediately. Jon had commissioned the sigil for this exact ceremony back when the raiding had first begun. He had known, because of how well he knew Theon that the Ironborn would soon attempt to take the mile now that they had been 'allowed' an inch without violent reaction. Edric held the sigil up and Jon stabbed the sword through it, pinning the material to a nearby wooden beam,

"We shall endure whatever hardships present themselves to us during our battle!" he continued, a fire in his eyes that even he could feel, "The sigil is struck… and the sword will only be removed when our enemies are vanquished! Until such a day as our war is over, our swords shall not be sheathed! They will know the blood of our enemies and they will deflect the attacks on the innocents of our lands!"

He noticed that Edric was returning with the rest of his armour. Without a word, Jon began to step into the pieces of armour even as Edric hurried to strap him into it. The other knights and warriors were having their squires do the same and, in the case of those without squires, dressing themselves in their armours. Ghost whined once and Jon reached out and placed a calming hand on his head without looking at the direwolf. Instead he just watched the five hundred or so men he had under his command as they readied themselves to ride out and meet the Ironborn in battle.

These were the men he would lead into battle.

These were the men who he would charge forth with.

These were the men who were willing to die for their duty to the North.

And at least some of these men were going to die out there in the frosts of the North. Their blood spilled by raiders and invaders – savages, not warriors or knights of renown. The boys who had come here for glory and trained hard would be felled by glorified pirates. And even though Jon knew that each would take many of the Ironborn scum with them to meet their gods, the thought did not cheer Jon at all.

Would that they all could live – would that this war would not be a bloody affair.

But it would be.

Jon's blood cried out for nothing less than quick, bloody, vengeance and he was in no way inclined to temper his rage right now. His men would die – that was true. But he knew that they would take many Ironborn with them. He knew that there was a strong chance he himself would die – but that didn't matter because he knew he would not die before his sword had tasted blood of the Greyjoy line. Right now that could be old-man Balon, Asha the Warrior Wench or Theon the Freed. He would enjoy letting their life-blood spill.

Now fully armoured, Jon drew his blade and raised it high.

The cry was echoed by the entire order. The very air itself seemed to stop moving in the might of their conviction.

"For The North!"


	13. Chapter 13

**AN - Slightly longer than usual. A decent sized battle - really didn't want to cut up into smaller chapters. Enjoy.**

The Warrior Wench

Jon remembered seeing Deepwood Motte with Robb back when they had been on a tour of the North on their father's orders. Of course back then the wooden fortress had been something of a novelty for Jon, having been raised within the grey stone walls of Winterfell. But the wooden motte and bailey castle had a certain charm to it back then, the small town spreading out before it filling the air with the sound of happy smallfolk - smallfolk who were happy to be ruled by House Glover.

The internal courtyard, or the bailey, was home to a much smaller village that directly supported the Glovers and their retainers. It was also designed in such a way that, in the event of a siege, the townspeople could be welcomed into the courtyard village and provided both protection of the walls and lodgings with the other occupants of the castle itself.

When he had last been here, the castle gates had been wide open and the Glovers had greeted his brother at the gate, their people cheering both at the arrival of the Stark heir but at the appearance of the Glover Lord as well. It had been nice to see - even Theon had agreed at the time that it had been a rather heart-warming display.

Of course Theon had come with them on Robb's tour of the North and had visited some of the major strongholds of the region. And when he had escaped and become an Ironborn in truth, he had doubtlessly shared with them the information he had about the strongholds on the western side of the North.

Deepwood Motte had been full of life and an appreciation for the gentle overlords, the Glovers.

But Jon wasn't in that same, happy, Motte any more he reflected as he swung his sword in a harsh upwards slash from his position on his horse. The Ironborn screamed shrilly as his sword tore the man open from stomach to neck. The smell wasn't just of the coppery blood of the man though - he had cut through the main's leather armour, through his stomach and into his bowls. The Ironborn was dying, desperately trying to keep his insides in, and stank of piss, shit and blood. A backward swing of his sword separated the man's head from his shoulders.

The battlefield was noisy enough as it was - he didn't need to add to the noise.

His horse bucked underneath him as a particularly determined Ironborn managed to cut through one of its front legs with his axe. As the horse was falling forwards, Jon pushed himself forwards as well, off the horse and on top of the offending Ironborn. His sword was too long in these quarters and his axe was still on his belt... instead he pinned the man beneath him with his knees and roared as the 'claws' of his gauntlets tore into the man's throat.

Tearing the man's throat out, he retrieved his axe with his other hand in time to swing it round into the side of the face of another raider who had sought to try his luck against the Wolfknight. By the end of this battle though, Jon didn't doubt that he would have another name. He was almost coated in blood and gore from his enemies and his viciousness, he admitted, was not at all knightly.

Certainly did a number on the Squids though.

Gendry came barrelling through the street of the 'creatively' named Mottetown, his large warhammer actually bashing back more than one Ironborn at a time,

"Ned!" he called out gruffly even as he bodily picked up a slight Ironborn and threw him into a nearby building's wall, "Ned I've got some fast fuckers up front!"

Jon watched as Edric Dayne, his own greatsword flying through the air, opening up great rivets of blood in his opponents, almost flowed past Gendry to block a flimsy dirk with his greatsword. Gendry would have been too slow to block it but Edric was not. The greatsword was castle steel, not Dawn, but it was massive and sharp and the dirk was small and blunt.

Before Jon's eyes, Edric's sword cut through the dirk as if it weren't even there and the sword continued onwards, cutting a deep trench through the Ironborn's face, cutting the skull entirely in two. Gendry lashed out with his warhammer, crushing the chest of a raider who had thought to capitalise on Edric's distraction,

"My thanks Gend!"

"Stuff your thanks - I want one of your bottles of Dornish red for saving your skinny little arse!"

Jon was tracking their little conversation even as he attacked his next opponent. With his sword in his right and his axe in his left, Jon wasn't in a position to defend against attacks very well - his entire style focused on brutal, precise, strikes with speed and movement to protect him. A sword and shield wielding Ironborn began to advance on him slowly - obviously thinking that the shield meant that Jon wouldn't be able to breach his defence.

As soon as the man was in range he slashed down with his axe, deliberately letting the rim of the shield catch the blade. He yanked down on the axe, dragging the shield down with the effort. Jon was able to see the Ironborn man's eyes widen inside his helmet. But... man was a rather strong term. The fighter looked like he was 14.

Jon was rather ashamed to admit to himself later that despite this observation he didn't falter in the slightest. His sword came up, over the shield, point down... and plunged right down through the gap in the armour between the neck and shoulder. Blood bubbled up in the boys mouth as Jon's sword pierced his heart and, most likely, lungs as well. Ignoring the boy's death, Jon withdrew his sword from its bloody sheathe in the boy's body and kicked his dying foe over onto the ground.

He didn't have the time to fall apart because he had killed someone Bran's age. If he didn't keep moving he wasn't going to live through the madness that was true battle. Bandits didn't have anything on the Ironborn - especially the more devout of them. The devout Ironborn just threw themselves onto swords for a chance to hit you screaming their stupid little motto.

 _'What is dead may never die'._

Well of course not. But the Ironborn weren't dead... not until you cut them open and their claret left them in gushes. His order, his Lords of Winter, would make sure that the Ironborn holding Deepwood Motte would never die - because they'd already be fucking dead. He was sure their wet god, or whatever the fuck they called it, would appreciate having their corpses delivered to whatever hell he had created for these brutes of men.

There was a roar of triumph ahead of him and he noticed the Ironborn line was breaking. Of course they still controlled both the Motte and the Bailey for now so the retreat was just the Ironborn running back into bailing and barring the gates.

Of course, like the cravens they were, they had trapped some men on the outside of the gates. Jon was one of the men to charge forwards, dashing the stranded Ironborn against the gate. His own sword plunged into the throat of a man and his weight pushed another in front of a man's polearm, sending his entrails to the ground. Jon very nearly tripped on the slippery organs but he pushed forwards, his axe swinging in the close quarters, taking a man's entire jaw off before the weight of the Lord smashed the man's skull against the wooden gates of the castle.

Jon extracted himself from his fellows as they celebrated the liberation of the small town even as some of the larger men were dragging up the large log they had cut down to use as a ram. He was covered in blood and grime and bone-tired from all the bloodletting. But his presence wasn't really needed right now. He wasn't one of the stronger men so he wouldn't be using the ram and he wasn't an archer so he couldn't harass any Ironborn who thought to harass the ram. There were some men who stayed around the ram with their shields to cover the stronger man from arrows but so far the Ironborn didn't seem to be mounting a defence of the gate.

They were probably a bit dazed honestly – getting themselves grounded for the second part of the siege.

Didn't matter to Jon for the moment - let the Squids catch their breath. Jon's men would do the same so that they would push through the opening when the gate was opened, giving the ram-team a break themselves. He raised his sword high,

"Every man not involved in making a breach... fall back!" he shouted clearly, "Fall back to the town. Grab some rest - grab some wine! Rest up your sword arms my brothers - You'll be needing them soon!"

There was almighty roar of agreement and everyone who wasn't involved in the ramming effort (or the archers) peeled away from the gate to the safety of the town. Jon spotted Gendry on the ram but was able to pat Edric on the back as they made their way down into the cover of the town,

"You did well today Edric..." he told the younger man before smirking, "Is today the day I knight you Edric?"

Edric seemed to be more tired that Jon had thought. When he removed his helm he looked more tired than Jon felt. The younger man managed a playful scowl,

"Not today..." he muttered, waving as he went to collect some wine, "I'm too fucking tired."

Jon laughed a little bit but decided not to go after his squire. The young warrior deserved his rest and Jon wasn't going to be getting out of his armour just yet so he didn't need his squire. Instead he would check on someone rather important.

Working his way through the bloodied streets, Jon moved back from the front edge of the battle. He made his way back to where some of his wounded men had been pulled back to. He gave one or two reassuring looks before making his way over to the small inn that they had taken over for the most severely wounded. It might be strange to some that the wounded weren't too far behind the fighting but it beat dragging wounded men to the edge of the trees and it certainly beat just leaving them there to die.

Besides, their front line was pushing at the Ironborn gates. Unfortunately for the squids, the Lords had mounted men, more heavily armoured foot soldiers and dedicated marksmen. When all working together, the Ironborn had fallen much faster and in far greater numbers that the Lords and the remains of the Glover guards they had encountered on the way into the attack.

Speaking of the Glovers.

Robett Glover had been the Glover in command of Deepwood Motte when the Ironborn had attacked. He was his brother's heir to the Motte but Jon hadn't been able to figure out why the Lord Glover hadn't been present... and why only a small number of household guards and town guards had been available to be called upon for the defence of the Motte. The reduced defences had played a large part in the Ironborn being able to actually TAKE the Motte rather than just raid its town and move on.

And this was without touching upon how strange it was to have Ironborn actively trying to take a keep on the mainland.

On the high seas? With the ground unsteady beneath your feet? Ironborn was un-matched fighters. They knew how to move with each and every rock of the ship and no other realm could say the same for their men. This was why the Ironborn much preferred naval combat to a land-based fight. They had the advantage at sea but on land they were the 'green' ones. Might as well piss grass.

So, it made fuck all sense.

He had been getting ravens from Varys about their small scale raids and their fleet build up but he hadn't received anything that had implied they would be attempting to actually TAKE territory. The fuckers they were fighting hadn't run away to their longboats yet - that did NOT fit with what anyone here knew about the Ironborn. There was one person who might have more of a clue in the area - news travelled faster to bigger lords after all. And he had Lord Robbet Glover bleeding on a table in the inn here.

Sam was here working on the men as best as he could but it seemed he had finished with Glover for now. The lord has taken an axe blow to his upper right thigh. There had been a lot of blood but Sam had declared the lord lucky - apparently the man had narrowly managed to avoid having a major vein cut which would have bled the man dry in seconds. Of course the lord had also taken a clash to his chest, which had taken a lot longer for Sam to work with because by the time they found him with the remains of the town guards in the woods, corruption had begun to set in. Sam was hopeful though - for more of a 'combat maester' than a true maester.

Either way, the heir of Deepwood Motte was awake, surly and had information Jon needed. He pulled up a chair and sat at the table Robbett was laid up on, but didn't say a word. He just stared the irate man in the eyes and waited. Pretty soon Robett would tell him exactly what he wanted to know but he couldn't very well demand something of a Lord – he was still a bastard, even if he had won himself the right to a true name. If word got out that he had demanded something of a Lord, especially one of some importance like a Glover, then his Order would lose the support of many other Lords who supplied them with supplies and opportunities.

No one liked upstarts questioning their 'betters' after all.

"I heard a cheer… but your fucking maester won't tell me shite." He groused before reaching out and grabbing Jon by the edge of his armour. Jon allowed the wounded man to do so – no need to fall out just yet, "Tell me you've managed to drive the fuckers from my ancestral home Jon Snow."

Ah. So there it was – Robett Glover had an issue with his status as a bastard. Odd seeing as he had heard the Bastard of Hornwood was supposed to be fostered here. Might be that his older brother was the Glover responsible for that little act of kindness. He pulled himself free of the older man's grip gently,

"We hold Mottetown." He told the Glover seriously, "The ram is at the gate now. I imagine they've started to harass the ramming crew but… they're fucking squids. They overrun your keep with surprise and opportunity – they know less about siege warfare than a wildling knows about the Faith of the Seven. We'll breach the bailey within the hour I should think."

Robett snorted, whether in amusement or derision he didn't know, and immediately winced as the action no doubt brought more pressure and pain to the infected wound across his chest. Jon didn't take it personally but he did wonder what Robett really expected – Jon had but five hundred men and that was when he had first marched into Mottetown. The Ironborn, by all estimates, had just over double their number. The difference in weapons, armour and skill had proven to be the deciding factor in the battle so far however.

Another loud cheer and Jon took a deep breath. He hadn't really had either a chance to rest of a chance to discuss what he wanted to know with Robett Glover. He wiped his sword down with a nearby rag and did the same with his axe. They would just get bloody again soon but he would rather have wipe them down now that risk them getting too dirty to be of true use. He rose from his seat,

"Lord Glover." He looked into the older man's eyes, "Is there anything I should know before we assault the motte? I have no doubt it will be very costly to use conventional strategy."

He thought that Robett would dismiss him for a moment before he let out an annoyed grunt,

"Whole thing is wooden. But ground floor is made from Forrester Ironwood. All of it – walls, furniture and fucking floors." He revealed gruffly, "To stop any of our enemies setting it alight from the base. Of course, only Forresters can get Ironwood to burn."

Well now – that was very interesting.

And unlike the rest of the little conversation, that little titbit was actually something useful. He nodded to Sam as he left, not bothering to bid the Lord farewell – He was putting his brothers on the line to rescue the man's ancestral seat. If he felt slightest he was a fucking moron and the Lords of the North would hopefully be able to apply common sense and see the truth of the matter. Sword and axe in hand, Jon resolved himself to forget about the answers and the questions he had demanded before.

All that mattered now was the bloody business of the day.

Lancel Lannister, his golden armour stained red with the blood of their enemies, came to his side. The Lannister knight had been someone Jon had been uncertain about in the beginning – he was all pride and glory, as Lions often were. But after almost two years of fighting side by side in the North, Lancel had changed. His hair was long in the Northern style and he had the beginnings of a dirty blonde beard. Honestly, the young knight looked more like a Northman than a Lannister. Fought like one too if the blood on the knuckles of his off hand was any indication,

"You've lost your shield Ser Lancel."

The golden knight scoffed,

"Didn't lose it – its right where I left it."

At Jon's questioning tilt of his helmed head, Lancel explained,

"Got stuck in the chest piece of some armoured Ironborn. Couldn't pull it free at the time."

Jon looked up at the gate. The ram had done damage, sunlight could be seen through cracks in the gate. It wouldn't be long before they broke through but there was enough time to let the men muster around Lancel and himself, ready to rush forwards as the vanguard of the renewed attack. Speaking of the next attack… Lancel was remarkably calm about the whole thing. When he had first come to Jon, Lancel had shaken in his boots at the sight of bandits. And now here he was, ready to jump into the fray against blood-thirsty buggers like the Ironborn,

"Lancel, you have the dismounted cavalry."

The Lannister nodded and stepped away from Jon to rally the two hundred or so knights and warriors who usually made up the cavalry of the Lords of Winter. The entire one hundred archers were keeping the Ironborn defenders suppressed at the moment and fifty of the foot were working the ram against the gate. That left Jon with roughly one hundred and fifty foot to command going through that gate. They had already flocked to him as they understood they were expected to,

"My brothers are knocking at their gates – but we'll be the ones to shove cold, hard, steel down their throats!" he declared, getting the expected roar of approval from his men even as he began to speed up to a light jog. The gaps in the gate were getting bigger with every push and it wouldn't be long. The men were keeping pace with him, "A gold dragon to the man who brings me their commander on their knees! Everyone else… slay them to the last!"

The gate was forced open with a massive sound of shattering wood just as Jon was rushing past the men responsible for the ram. He idly noted that he was screaming at the top of his lungs as he jumped through the gap in the gate, knocking an unfortunate Ironborn defender backwards and off balance from the force alone. With a savage thrust he buried his sword into the man's chest, bringing himself closer to the unshaven raider. The scream continued even as Jon's axe swiped at the man's throat, half decapitating the man with the one stroke.

Kicking the man free of his blade, Jon was able to parry a frantic slash from another invader before his opponent's skull just… disappeared in a pink mist with small chunks of bone. Gendry's massive warhammer swung again, catching an Ironborn in the knee, no doubt turning the bone to powder. Not stopping long enough long enough to thank his brother, Jon parried a sword swing from his left with his axe, lifting the man's sword up so his armpit was exposed before plunging his sword into the gap between the armour there, piercing lungs and heart before drawing his blade out again to finish off a recovering Ironborn on the ground who had sustained only a light wound.

"Commander sighted!"

Jon's head whipped up at the cry. It also saved his life as it let him see a wild stab from a spear coming his way. He shattered the spear with a mighty swing of his axe before his sword's swing cut a red line across the man's throat. He turned to the sound of the cry and immediately took in the situation. Asha Greyjoy was currently duelling with Lancel Lannister. Their dance was swift and brutal but Asha was fighting with two axes while Lancel was using a longsword – Asha would have been able to destroy Lancel if she got close enough but Lancel had fought enough wildlings with the same tactics and was keeping the squid woman at a distance. Her axes were almost useless when in the perfect longsword range.

He stopped watching.

Lancel would have the squid woman captured, he had no doubt about that. It seemed that everyone else on the battlefield shared the sentiments because one of the armoured Ironborn attempted to break away from the main battle to aid Asha… Jon struck true with his sword, cutting the man's hamstring down to the bone and grounding the man instantly. His axe flew downwards, breaking apart skull and what passed for a brain in an Ironborn. A feminine cry of pain caught his attention. It seemed that Lancel had wounded the Ironborn commander's right arm, leaving her with only an axe in her off arm. Lancel called for the woman to yield – or at least Jon thought he said that. It was hard to hear over the din of battle, especially when he was only stealing glances while working to capitalise on the openings made by his brothers.

A handful of the Ironborn fled up the unnaturally steep hill to the keep itself and Jon gave the order to let them run back to the keep. They were penned into the keep itself now. It would be incredibly costly for him and his men to attempt to take the keep itself due to the massive hill it rested nicely upon but Jon didn't plan on storming the keep. It was, rather strangely, one of the few keeps in the North was a steeped roof of tiles. The rains of the Wolfswood were known for their volume so he supposed a flat roof, one capable of supporting troops, was more of a liability than a strength.

And it was one part of the downfall of the Ironborn who sought to ride out the attack and take shots at them from the windows of the keep.

He called for the archers as his men began stabbing at the Ironborn bodies, testing it they were dead and offering a mercy to those who were merely dying. Lancel returned to his side then, two of the Westerland squires he had brought with him holding Asha Greyjoy tightly between the two of them. The Lannister knight took grinned, blood showing on his teeth. It appeared Asha had given him a good hit or two but the Lannister knight was understandably proud,

"Asha Greyjoy my lord commander."

Jon looked to the woman. She wasn't the prettiest woman he had ever seen but she was far from hard to look upon. He looked her up and down once before focusing on her face. She had very few similarities with Theon… the cheek bones were better and her eyes were a brighter colour. But family resemblance didn't matter – she was Asha Greyjoy, the Warrior Wench of the Iron Islands. Commander of the Ironborn at Deepwood Motte too. Jon nodded to Lancel before looking to the seething Asha,

"You are the commander of the Ironborn here."

It wasn't a question.

"You will tell your men to stand down or when we breach the keep, and we will, we shall hand them over to the Boltons."

Also not a question but it did include a lie. He had no Bolton men with him and even if he did he wasn't sure he could actually order the flaying of men, even Ironborn. But Asha didn't know that and all knew the reputation of the Boltons – their sigil was a flayed, screaming, man after all. There was a wavering in her expression but after a second her resolve recovered and she refused to answer with words, only spitting in his direction.

Seeing the spit sliding down his chest, Jon sighed once before turning to the archers,

"Prepare fire arrows!"

Asha's eyes widened in surprise. No doubt she thought he valued Deepwood Motte itself more highly than the chance to kill trapped Ironborn. She might have been right any other time but not now. Especially with what Robett Glover had told him. He turned to Gendry and the other heavy fighters,

"Fetch one of the carts from the town – You're going to run up there and block the exit with it."

Gendry nodded and immediately left with some of the other strong warriors to collect the cart as ordered – even though the other bastard likely had no idea what he had planned once the exit was blocked. Asha did though,

"You would burn my men alive?" she ground out, "You're fucking scum Greenlander! I heard you sers were supposed to hold your honour – where is the honour here you bastard?!"

She struggled against the two squires but she barely moved. Jon looked at her as he spotted Gendry approaching with the cart,

"Watch and learn squid." He told her simply, "I'm not going to burn your men to death. That would destroy the keep."

The cart was pushed up the hill, the men taking cover behind it from arrows that rained down from the windows. With an almighty effort, and two more deaths, the cart was slammed up against the doors of the keep, blocking them completely. Gendry and his fellows held the cart up with their body weight and one arm while holding up a shield each above them with the free arm.

They were ready.

"Do you know only House Forrester has the secret to burning Ironwood?" he asked Asha simply as the raised his hand for the archers to notch their flaming projectiles, "If you don't set it alit properly do you know what happens Asha Greyjoy? Simple. It just smokes. Thick, heavy, smoke that only shifts with the use of bellows… and the entirety of the ground floor of Deepwood Motte's ground floor is constructed from the stuff."

He gave the order to fire and almost one hundred flaming arrows were loosed at the keep. Thankfully even just the ground floor of the keep was a large area to cover – only a few arrows went astray. Most hit the outside of the keep, which almost immediately began to just smoke, foul, black smoke that seemed not to shift, even with the light breeze in the air. The best shots however… went straight through the windows and into the keep itself.

Another volley – yet more arrows inside the keep now.

Yet more smoke filling the finite area within Deepwood Motte's keep. It took only a few moments before it was clear that there was attacks on the door from the inside. The cart was shaking from the force but Gendry and his crew were able to keep it pressed up against the entrance. The smoke was blocked in and so were, at Jon's guess, a few hundred Ironborn. Even if there was only say, three hundred men in the keep – that meant that there was no fresh air, rapidly increasing amounts of deadly smoke and three hundred bastards trying to be the only one to suck in the remainder of the breathable air.

Asha attempted to escape but Jon just had her watch as the smoke increased and the banging against the cart lessened before coming to an almost complete halt. He waved the archers forwards and they advanced up the motte on all sides, reaching up to the windows with fire arrows notched. A few more fire arrows were shot directly into the keep from multiple sides. More smoke and more choking Ironborn. After what was surely an agonising half an hour for Asha, Jon sent a runner towards the archers,

"Open the doors. Kill any survivors."

He sent a second runner to gather some of his fellows and fetch buckets of water from the town well, to stop the smoking. After all, he wasn't to be able to actually give Deepwood Motte back to the Glovers in a condition that could be considered habitable. Asha growled at him and almost managed to hit him,

"You're a fucking monster!" she shouted at him, "Theon was right about you Jon Snow! You're a bastard and a vicious cunt!"

Jon had had enough.

Spinning around on the spot, Jon punched Asha squarely in the throat with his gauntleted fist. Her breathing immediately became laboured as her throat seized up. He grabbed his by the face, the claw on the index finger of his gauntlet resting just underneath one of her eyes,

"When my men, my charge and my home are threatened by scum like you?" he asked even as his claw dug into the skin just beneath her eye, drawing blood, "Don't you fucking forget it you squid bitch."

The doors to the keep were thrown open and thick black smoke billowed out for a few moments. A group of archers with unlit arrows stepped up to the door. As one they began to unload their quivers into the keep. Judging by the angle of their bows they were aiming at men on the ground… it was likely most of the men were dead already but they just kept walking into the now more ventilated room, making sure an arrow made its home in every Ironborn's chest no doubt.

The runner came back down the motte as the archers left the building, coughing audibly even from here. A train of water runners were going up the hill as the runner reported to Jon,

"All Ironborn are dead Ser." The young man relayed quickly, "Some three or four hundred I'd say. Might even be more – we've not checked the upper levels. Not until there's no new smoke at least."

Asha sagged in the arms of the squires and Jon removed his gauntlet from her face even as he throat removed from his strike. He gave the young runner a silver stag before turning back to Asha,

"Now… commander, Greyjoy." He began with a growl not far from his lips, "You're fucking invasion has cost many of my order their lives here today. And I don't even know why you're doing this yet! I'm going to ask you some questions and you had best answer me honestly or you'll wish you were in the Dreadfort's dungeons right now."


	14. Chapter 14

Blood and Ice

Asha Greyjoy hadn't wanted to talk to the man who had captured her and killed all of her men - some without even the 'honour' of being killed in combat, dying from inhaling smoke instead of steel. Didn't make all that much sense to Jon honestly. The Ironborn spat on the 'Greenlander' concept of honour so why was it so bad when one of those same 'Greenlanders' didn't kill them with the honour they spurned?

Honestly, it was much more likely that the Greyjoy woman was just a bitter little shrew who hated to acknowledge that a smaller, but clearly superior, Greenlander force had decimated her entire command. And within the space of six hours - it was honestly one of the shortest sieges that Jon had ever heard of. Helped that the Ironborn were so useless at siege warfare of course.

But no matter the reason why she hadn't wanted to talk to him, she just didn't speak to him. So rather than beat her to get the answers out, Jon had resolved to try a different tactic. He had threatened her with the Boltons before - the men known for how they flayed their enemies alive, despite laws forbidding it. He didn't have any Bolton men who had flayed people before with him.

Domeric had joined as a squire straight from his fostering in the Vale and had become a knight within a few weeks - the man was as powerful on horseback as any knight of the South, masterful with a lance and skilled with both sword and shield. When you spoke to Domeric you realised you were speaking to the idealised medium between a warrior of the North and a Knight of the South - he was quiet, somewhat solemn and brutal when in actual combat, as a Northman should be, but he was well read, gentle outside of battle and honourable, the ideal of a Southern knight. If you spoke to Domeric you knew he was a good man. If you just heard his name however?

That was a different story.

Domeric Bolton had never flayed a man but who would believe the heir to the Dreadfort had never engaged in the 'sport' of his forefathers? His father was Roose Bolton - the Leech Lord. The man whose very name conjured up images of blood-filled leeches and sharp knives. His family line was infamous for the inspiration behind their Words - Our Knives Are Sharp.

Jon had called the young knight to his tent as he looked over the small map he had open in front of him. He had immediately left Deepwood Motte with his order, heading for Winterfell for further orders from the Lord Paramount of the North - and the man most likely to have gotten the new information first. Asha was in a cage just outside his tent, trapped like the animal that she was and Jon was just waiting for the Bolton heir to arrive.

Domeric entered and stood at attention but Jon finished checking their position on the map in relation to Winterfell first. They had been travelling for a few days now and it seemed they were only a day's march away from the ancestral seat of the Starks. Satisfied with his findings, he looked up at Domeric with a small smile,

"Thank you for coming Ser Domeric." he greeted the other knight with a martial handshake before moving the two of them further away from Asha's cage, "You did well at Deepwood Motte Ser - I heard you saved my own squire's life. My thanks Ser Domeric."

The knight from the Dreadfort merely waved off the praise with a good natured smile,

"No thanks are needed Ser Jon. Your squire will one day be a knight that songs are sung about." he declared with a grin, "As a musician, I wouldn't forgive myself if I had let the chance to sing such songs pass me by just because of an Ironborn with a lucky axe strike."

Yes... Domeric the musician. Not any instrument either - the harp. It seemed to be at odds with his martial prowess but Jon knew that it was just something the slightly older man kept to himself. He only shared his musical talents with the companions he deemed his true friends - Jon was lucky enough to be counted amongst them. He nodded in agreement as he poured the two of them some ale.

They drank heartily before Jon spoke again, much more solemn now,

"You know why you're here."

It wasn't a question - both of them knew why Jon had called Domeric to aid him in questioning Asha. Just Domeric's presence was often enough but sometimes Domeric would have to order one of the other men to do certain things in order to reinforce the illusion that, as a Bolton, Domeric would do whatever he wanted to get the information he needed.

Domeric took a deep swig of ale, already looking a lot less chipper. The man hated what his name meant to the world at large and Jon could appreciate that but sometimes circumstances meant that things had to be done that caused discomfort. Although Domeric hated being used in this way, both of them knew that Jon hated asking and Domeric would do whatever it took to serve the order well because he believed in their cause.

To defend The North, and its people, from threats.

"I can guess." Domeric admitted as he drank some more, "I had hoped that Asha Greyjoy would be someone to break under regular pressure of hunger and thirst. But I imagine that was just my own hopefulness bleeding through."

Domeric didn't want to do it. And Jon hated to have to be the one to tell him that his choice, while noted, had no place here. He sighed a little bit, staring down into his own cup so that he wouldn't have to look at Domeric,

"I will order you to do this if I must Domeric." He admitted before glancing to his friend, "Please don't make me. Agree to come with me to ask her some questions. I have hope that just acknowledging whom you are might loosen her tongue."

Jon would have liked to say that Domeric matched his enthusiasm but that was simply not true at all – the young man looked like he was going to be sick. Jon poured him some more – It wouldn't do to have their 'torturer' looking as if he was about to throw up at the very prospect of doing what it was said his family did. He considered, for a moment, what life would be like if Domeric did actually enjoy flaying men. He'd be as a mad dog. And Jon and his knights would put him down like the dog he was for breaking both the King's Peace and the laws of The North.

Thankfully no such Bolton existed.

Even Roose Bolton, fearsome reputation aside, wasn't a mad dog. The opposite as far as Jon had heard from Domeric – a cold and calculating man who did everything because of the action's benefits to House Bolton itself. Jon couldn't blame the man too much – House Bolton was down to only Roose and Domeric after all. But all that aside… he still needed to have Domeric play up to the reputation that his House held onto.

Domeric stood there, still and silent as a statue, for a few more moments before giving a nod of his head. The two of them finished their drinks and marched from Jon's tent, Domeric continuing on, barking out instructions to some of the squires. He imagined that, to Asha Greyjoy, the man shouting for a pig was rather confusing, if not foolish. But Jon knew better, Domeric knew better, the knights knew better and soon Asha too would know better than to question the 'madness' that was Domeric Bolton's unique method of torturing a person. Jon moved closer to the cage, kicking one of the woman's hand which had grasped the bars,

"Back up Greyjoy." He told her bluntly, "We're letting you out of the cage for a few questions. You won't like the questions. You won't like how we ask them. But you will answer them."

He nodded to the squires on guard duty and they opened the cage, immediately man-handling the Greyjoy woman as she had tried to attack. After some vein struggles, Asha was brought to her knees in front of Jon, both arms restrained behind her back by a strong squire. Jon glanced over his shoulder and saw that Domeric was still preparing. He drew his dagger and grabbed Asha by the hair, pressing the tip of his knife against her lower eyelid of her left eye,

"You will talk for him. Or you will talk for me." He growled, "I buried over a hundred of my sworn brothers at Deepwood Motte because of you and your scum."

Asha seemed off-put by the knife in her face but no less defiant it seemed,

"Aye, and my people won't rest until every one of your 'brothers' are dead." She snarled back, "We are Ironborn. We want what you Greenlanders have and we'll take it over your fucking corpses!"

Jon hummed a little bit,

"By my count you lost almost a thousand men for my hundred because… your people? Your people are little better than pirates." He smirked, "Krakens you might be but you're on dry land now squid. And you'll burn and blister in the sun and the wolves will pick you apart."

She didn't seem inclined to speak anymore but did try and catch his face with her spit. Thankfully Jon had the good fortune of being able to merely step to the side to avoid the projectile. And thankfully for Asha's continued 'well-being', Domeric was here. Jon stepped to the side as Domeric carried a wooden block and a leather case of some kind. The heir to the Dreadfort set the block down and sat upon it, unfurling the leather to reveal a multitude of small, incredibly sharp, knives. He looked at Asha and Jon couldn't see an inch of the man he knew Domeric to be.

It was like looking at Roose Bolton made younger.

"Do you know who I am?"

A simple question.

"A fucking Greenlander playing at being some scary bastard."

A stupid answer.

Domeric nodded to the guard to Asha's right. The guard nodded once in return before back handing the Greyjoy woman across the face. His gauntleted hand was not gentle on the woman, who spat out some blood to the side before being restrained fully once again.

"I am Domeric Bolton. Do you know the sigil of my House?"

Another simple question.

All knew the sigil of the Boltons was the flayed man, even the Houses of the South. They had seen the flayed man banners during Robert's Rebellion and the armies they faced had been shown no quarter by the men under the command of the Lord Bolton. The Greyjoys knew it as well – it had been one of the many standards that had been present at the end of their last rebellion. But Asha remained silent. The guard went to hit her again but Domeric waved the man off before taking one of the smallest knives from the case. He whistled once and a squire came forwards, clutching a struggling piglet.

Jon wished they'd have found a larger pig honestly. Mainly because they would eat it afterwards and a larger pig fed more. But also because he honestly didn't think what was about to happen should really be exercised on even animals more than was strictly needed. Domeric stood from the block and the pig was restrained to the block with ropes,

"The sigil of House Bolton is the flayed man. Have you ever seen a man being flayed alive?"

There was a shiver that Asha couldn't contain but other than that she kept a grim face on and refused to say a word. Domeric pressed the tip of his knife against the pig's hide before turning to Jon. Jon nodded and spoke for the first time,

"What are the Ironborn doing in The North? Why did you invade our lands and break the King's Peace?"

Asha snorted,

"That fat fuck isn't a king of mine." She snarled, "And we invaded because we are Ironborn. You have things we want – we're here to fucking take them."

The answer seemed to make sense in some ways but not all of it added up. For example, the fact that it appeared that The North had already called its banners for some reason, hence why Deepwood Motte had only a token defence force and the younger of the Glover brothers. And the Ironborn had to have known this, otherwise they would never have invaded so far inland – and definitely would never have even thought to take a keep of The North and attempt to hold it for their own.

No, it was a decent answer but wrong all the same.

Jon nodded to Domeric and the Bolton heir began to slowly cut into the hide of the pig, just a shallow, straight cut. But the pig was already squealing and crying as if he had taken an organ or something similar. Asha tried to look away but the guards grabbed her by her hair, forcing her to watch as Domeric made an incision parallel to the first one. The woman shook as she watched the skin of the pig being sliced with such precision and, seemingly, all done by a man who didn't seem to feel anything about what he was currently doing.

"Wrong answer Greyjoy." Jon told her bluntly, "Your people are raiders at heart but you thought you would be able to actually hold one of the keeps of The North. Not even a small one either but one owned by one of the bigger Houses of The North. So again. Why have your people thrown away their traditions and rather than raid have instead tried their hand at conquest?"

The Greyjoy woman growled as she glanced at Jon,

"Go fuck yourself bastard."

Without even a sign to continue, the guards forced her eyes front again as Domeric made a third incision. Then, with the greatest of ease, Domeric began to peal the skin from the pig with grace and precision that put most leather-workers to shame. After tearing the first bloody strip from the pig, Domeric began to flay the beast in earnest. It seemed his hands were almost a blur as he sliced easily through the light pink hide of the pig and tore entire sections of its skin from it. He paused when the pig's entire torso was now a bleeding mass, not a scrap of skin to be seen anywhere on the body of the pig anymore.

Domeric wiped the blade clean on a nearby rag and, almost conversationally, addressed Asha,

"Are you aware that the pig is still alive?"

Asha started, shocked at the revelation as the pig's cries had begun to die down as the flaying progressed. Domeric hummed,

"Oh yes, it's still alive. For now."

He smacked the pig's bloody body for emphasis and the creature let out a truly pitiful sound of pain before becoming silent again. It appeared to be getting the 'reality' of the situation through to Asha, who tried to break free of her captures again. Of course the guard were ready and she barely moved an inch before being backhanded again and restrained. Domeric hummed,

"I'm a good practitioner of this art. My father is a master. I can flay a man so he may live for many hours afterwards – my father can flay a man so slowly, and over such a long period, that the man will survive for days."

All lies of course – Roose Bolton never flayed living men. He had skinned men already dead and displayed their bodies as a warning to rebellious smallfolk in his hands but there was no law against that. The law was that a living man may not be flayed.

But Asha Greyjoy knew none of this.

All she could see was the pig, flayed half raw and half-dead but still existing in some kind of torturous state of life. Domeric killed the pig by slitting its throat and untied it from the block. The squire who had brought the pig hurried it away for cooking and Domeric once again wiped his blade clean, this time working it with a whetstone to keep its edge.

Jon could see that Asha was shaken by what had just happened in front of her and he struck now, while the iron was hot,

"Greyjoy." He snapped at her, catching her attention for the first time since the flaying had resumed, "Answer me truthfully and Domeric's knives shall not touch you."

She eyed said knives cautiously as Domeric continued to sharpen the one he had used. Jon pushed forwards with the questioning,

"Why have the Ironborn invaded?"

There was silence for a long moment before Asha spoke,

"Because the attention of the Greenlanders is somewhere else."

Well that was something, if only the vaguest confirmation of that which he already knew. But at least she wasn't trying to bullshit them with some story and get out of giving up anything of real value,

"And where is that attention?"

Another silence before the answer,

"South." She relented, "Some pirate king has taken control of the Stepstones. They say he went to the leaders of Lys, Tyrosh and Myr."

No.

Old gods and the new gods fucking NO!

The Three Daughters.

Every boy who had ever studied the wars of the lands of Westeros knew about the Three Daughters, the alliance of three Eastern city states that had threatened the very kingdom itself. If they had allied again, even if it was only temporary, then the Realm itself was in mortal peril. No wonder the banners of The North were gone – there was a much greater threat to the Realm than the Ironborn. The Ironborn were hardly a threat even when you weighed then up against three nations – four if you included the Stepstones – that had known nearly constant war over the disputed lands. Their men were battle hardened and no doubt hungry for the kind of plunder and riches that could be gained from attacking Westeros.

Even if it was just a massive slave drive for them, the danger was still present and the damage would be massive.

But it did let Jon know something he had hoped to avoid having confirmed – they were on their own. The high Lords of Westeros were already on a campaign, either defending their shores or taking the fight to the invaders from the East. He didn't know which and he didn't care. All that mattered was that The North stood alone at this juncture. He had barely four hundred men left and he was somehow the strongest the defence that The North could currently muster up.

Sure, he could squeeze some more men from some of the larger holds within The North but he was reluctant to do so, mainly because he knew those Lords would be reluctant to do so as well. What was left when The Realm went to war was only the bare minimum that would be needed to defend from bandits and to keep the King's Peace. As was shown at Deepwood Motte, those soldiers were not enough to deter an invading force such as the Ironborn.

Jon was snapped out of his thoughts by the sound of Asha Greyjoy cursing. He turned, spotting her being pushed back into her cage and Domeric gesturing for Jon to follow him back into the 'command' tent. Jon followed, his head still full of thoughts of how to defend The North from such a massive threat as an Ironborn invasion. When he was in the tent he noticed that Domeric went straight for the alcohol,

"I apologise for you having to do that Domeric."

The other young knight just shook his head as he drank greedily. It had always been like this. Whenever they needed to break a tough prisoner with a demonstration of flaying, the Bolton heir demanded that it not be spoken of again and drank heavily. Jon understood it to mean that the heir hated the practice even deeper than his words had made clear in the past. Jon stared at the map of The North, suddenly seeing phantom markers for phantom armies of Ironborn wherever he looked across the map.

"There was more."

Jon blinked a little bit before still stared at the map,

"The Triarchy of the Three Fucking Daughters seems to have reformed. A King of the Stepstones of all fucking places has united them in common cause – a cause that seems to fit with invading the lands of Westeros to the South. The Ironborn, ever the fucking opportunists, have invaded The North." He scoffed, "As if they had any hope of keeping it once the banners of The North come thundering back up the Neck. But there's more? More than all of that?"

There was silence for a moment,

"That sounds like it would fit with the kind of luck the gods have blessed us with recently." He admitted begrudgingly as he took a drink himself, "What more did the Squid have to say?"

Domeric picked up one of the flag markers for the map and hesitated for a moment before placing it outside the walls of Winterfell itself. Jon's blood ran cold as he stared at the black flag stuck on the map right beside his home, the home of the Stark family for generations, the centre of The North itself. And where his siblings would no doubt be.

Ayra.

Bran.

Sansa.

Rickon.

Perhaps even Robb! Though Jon found it actually more likely that Robb had been taken South with their father. He would have to learn how to command the Northern host and the experience of such a campaign could not be ignored. And besides all of that, Bran had shown himself to be a capable young man, with a head for construction and numbers. He would be more than capable of being the Stark in Winterfell with the council of wise elders within Winterfell itself. So Robb would not be there to mount a defence – Bran would be.

Bran – a child even if he would rapidly approach manhood within the next few years.

And there was an Ironborn host making for them right now, perhaps already there even. He took a deep breath as he forced his more analytical mind to take over. There would be a time for the white hot rage he felt inside at the mere thought of someone threatening his family – no doubt he would unleash said anger against the foes he would soon be facing. The men, his own men, were already whispering that he was now the Bloody Wolf. When he got his hands on the commander of the Ironborn attacking his home however they may well just make it his 'official' title instead. But the cooler part of his mind pushed forwards on the most important questions,

"Did she know when the attack was due to take place?" he asked with a small scowl, "The strength of their forces? The commander in charge of the assault?"

Jon took up a quill and ink to make relevant notes on the map, close at hand to the black flag of the Ironborn force at his home. Domeric hesitated for merely a second before relaying the information he had,

"She says they should be a day's march ahead of us. So likely they have reached the walls of Winterfell itself." He reported, "Numbering around one thousand men, just as her force at Deepwood Motte was."

A thousand men to take Winterfell? Ridiculous. Beyond ridiculous, it was absolute madness. Even if only the barest minimum number of guards were there, somewhere around the five hundred mark, there was no way that one thousand men would breach the walls of the ancient Stark fortress. They would dash themselves against walls too high for hastily made siege towers and gates sturdy enough to withstand days of battering rams.

No.

A thousand men didn't make sense – it would be a waste of fighting men. They'd die in the attempt to take the castle. Unless… unless they believed that they had an ace in the hole. A way into the castle that bypassed the need for a siege. Without needing to be told, Jon knew who the Ironborn commander was,

"Theon Greyjoy." He growled as he scribbled the name down by the expected troop numbers of the Ironborn, "The gutless craven fostered at Winterfell… it likely believes he knows the defences well enough to get around them. What the cunt doesn't know is that the defences were improved because of just such a fear."

The moat, for example, had always been just a moat before. The swim would be no challenge to the Squids and a grappling hook and the cover of night could then have men over the walls and opening the gates in no time. But with that in mind dozens of spikes had been laid in the moat since Theon's escape from Winterfell. Not only that, but the patrols along the walls been tripled, even during the night. Along with more pitch being readily available for dumping at any time, Winterfell was more protected than it had ever been.

It wouldn't even matter if the squids had attempted a diversion – the minimum garrison of six hundred men had been made law by Lord Eddard Stark. Even if Bran, or Robb, were to command the men to ride out, for whatever reason, they would not. So Winterfell would not fall to trickery – of that much Jon was comfortable in allowing himself to put faith in. A siege though? With almost no chance of reinforcements?

He doubted his younger brother had the stomach for a long siege. Jon himself had never been besieged but he had heard the tales from older knights who had fought in the previous wars. And everyone had heard the stories of Stannis during the siege of Storm's End. He didn't doubt for a second that Bran would surrender Winterfell if it meant he didn't have to watch any of the children of elders starving to death.

Jon stared at the map for a long time before nodding to himself,

"The majority of the force will be camped in Wintertown, no doubt taking everything and anything they please." He muttered to himself, "Because of this they will likely focus on the East gate. The others will be covered, of course, but they wouldn't attempt to take them, they'll focus on the East gate because of the cover and comfort Wintertown provides them."

Domeric moved closer to the map, frowning,

"But the East gate connects to the Kingsroad and is the most heavily fortified of the gates is it not?" he continued at Jon's nod, "I've seen that Winterfell has at least one ballista, even if it was an old thing the last time I saw it, and it's posted near the East gate. Why would the Ironborn set up their camp in front of such a weapon?"

Jon sighed, rubbing his chin with his hand,

"Because Theon knows Bran well enough to know that my brother won't order the firing of the siege weapons against Wintertown, for fear of harming the townsfolk." He argued with Domeric, "And he's right. Bran won't fire on the people House Stark is sworn to protect, even if they are harbouring the enemy of House Stark."

Doubtlessly they would have no say in their 'support' of the Greyjoys.

Jon mentally began calculating his remaining forces in his mind. Some 180 cavalry, 90 archers and 120 foot. So just shy of four hundred men in total and he needed to take on a force of one thousand Ironborn, who likely would be waiting for some form of attack to break their siege. He would have to use his men with cunning and, although adept at leading men while in the thick of the fighting, Jon was no master tactician. Thankfully, however, there was one man amongst the host who could be counted as a master tactician,

"Fetch me Samwell Tarly. We have a battle to plan."


	15. Chapter 15

**Author's Note;**

 **I don't like to do author's notes as I feel it detracts from the story. That being said, I do have to point some things out to my readers. Recently the review count on the story has been increasing, I can read the review in the email alert but cannot see the reviews when I check the page and attempting to respond from the email leads to a message that says the review does not exist. So I would like to apologise to those reviewers I have not replied to, this is most likely the cause. I'd also like to take this opportunity to address some questions that I've been unable to reply to because of this issue.**

 **Jon Snow accepted the knighthood originally because he was in a mild state of shock from battle and grew to appreciate it when he realised how such a title could help him grow.**

 **There will only ever be ONE change of POV – this is because the story is focused on Jon and everyone else is a side character. This does mean that quite a lot of the bigger picture is lost to the audience until it becomes obvious to Jon, because until he knows about it, you will not know of it.**

 **If there are any questions about how the battle is conducted within this chapter, please note I have done research on some well-known medieval battles to get a better idea of how they would flow. Surprisingly it appears that rather than a massive clash that lasted hours, most battles in open ground would be a series of clashes and withdrawals, where fresh troops were brought in. The exceptions being times when advantages needed to be pressed or momentum needed to be maintained – i.e. in making sure the enemy was routed or in capitalising on a breach in a siege.**

 **As always, please continue to read, enjoy and review. Your support means a great deal to me.**

* * *

The Fury of Winter

The plans had been made and the men had been briefed. Positions had been taken and no doubt steel was being sharpened for the task ahead.

Sam had given them a strategy for the battle. Even if the man was a craven when in battle himself, no one could say that Samwell Tarly was anything but a gifted commander. It seemed to have been a mix of his father trying to force him to become a brave battle commander, his natural intelligence and his love of read pretty much any text he could get his hands on. Jon wouldn't trust Samwell Tarly to hold a line of well-armed men against an angry potato farmer - but he trusted the man to tell him exactly where his lines should hold, when they should advance and what other elements of their forces would be best to support them at the time.

Jon had learnt the basics of co-ordinating men on a large scale but those lessons had always been more focused on Robb. So while Robb got extra lessons on that, Jon was off either training himself or learning more about small group tactics, the kind you used when you were inches away from death and your sword arm felt like lead but you had to motivate both yourself and your men to keep going regardless, to push past the point of exhaustion. So it was a real boon to the Order that Randyll Tarly had decided that Samwell had to join a knightly order or the Night's Watch, to remove his 'embarrassment' from the Reach.

But none of that really mattered right now.

It didn't matter why Sam was here. It didn't matter what kind of education Jon himself had when it came to war. It didn't matter that his own force was woefully outnumbered by just over 2:1.

None of that mattered right now because he could see the Greyjoy sigil flying proudly over the rooftops of Wintertown and it set his blood boiling. He had to restrain himself and remember the actual plan. He could charge on over there with his entire force and he would, because of the surprise, take many Ironborn to the grave with him. But their numbers meant that it would be his grave and the grave of his men. The Ironborn in Deepwood Motte had been defeated due to surprise, superior arms and training, and their own inexperience with defending a keep. But here? In the confines of a city they had looted? The Ironborn thrived in that type of warfare.

So instead, he was going to have to follow Sam's plan to bring a different type of war to the scum.

Jon was with the foot, hiding within the trees not far from Hunter's Gate. There was about a hundred Ironborn amassed around the gate, attempting to use a recently felled tree as a battering ram. The gate was holding firm however and a dozen archers or so were harassing the Ironborn rather effectively. So much so that neither the defenders nor the Ironborn had noticed the force of just over a hundred armoured foot soldiers hiding in the tree line not far from the gate. The remaining archers were actually just behind his foot as well, not really of use when the Ironborn were already holding their shields above their heads to negate the arrow-fire from the gate.

So rather than sending the archer close enough to get straight-shots, which would put the lightly armoured men in danger, Jon was instead going to have to take the fight to the men with the foot.

The cavalry were ordered elsewhere.

Jon walked down the line, checking on his men quickly as he did so. He stopped at one particularly frightened-looking squire. He placed a hand on the young man's shoulder and he damn near got a sword in the gut from the young man's surprised reaction. Jon smiled indulgently,

"You weren't part of the front line at Deepwood?"

The squire was silent but he looked down at his feet. Poor guy probably thought he was craven for getting scared before battle. Jon would tell any man proudly that he hadn't pissed himself before his first battle - most fighters were unable to say the same. Battle was a frightening thing, especially if it was your first taste. But no green-boy ever thought that perhaps the hardened warriors he stood next to had been just as green once and just as scared. Jon patted the young man's shoulder again,

"It's alright." he assured the younger man with a small grin, "You might be afraid right now but it won't last. When you're there, amongst it, you won't have the chance to remember to be afraid, you'll just remember your training and it'll all be automatic. And I'll let you in on a little secret... those Ironborn? They'll be pissing themselves when they see us charging them. So you got this? You ready to fight side by side with your brothers?"

The squire was patted on the back by some of the others beside him, knights, squires and Northern warriors alike. Jon honestly thought that no one about to face battle had any business grinning as wide as the squire was but it was much better than barely holding the piss in. He flashed another grin before moving to the very edge of the treeline and looking back at his Foot,

"That right there... is my home. The very beating heart of The North." he told them, careful to keep his voice low. The captains of smaller clusters of Foot, including Edric and Gendry, made sure none of their men cheered or even spoke yet. Jon drew his sword slowly, deliberately, before taking an ironwood shield up from Edric's outstretched hands. He fitted the shield to his off hand, hating how it weighed him down an awful lot more than his axe. It was, as Sam would say, necessary for The Plan however.

Just like the dirks most of the men had.

He looked over the Foot, making sure they had drawn their weapons as well before holding up his sword. Holding the pose for a moment, he spun round and charged from the treeline. The Foot rushed to follow him without a single war cry falling from their lips, as per The Plan. Of course their armour made noise, even if most of them wore mainly chainmail and leathers. Quite a lot of them were well-armoured knights, like Jon himself, so there was still a fair amount of noise.

The rear-most Ironborn began to realise what was happening and began to warn their fellows but by that point half the distance had been covered by the hundred or so Foot. Jon was still one of the leaders of the pack, sword raised high,

"WINTERFELL!"

The cry was taken up by the entirety of the Foot and the Ironborn turned to face them as best as they could. But even by turning to face the charge they had exposed themselves to the barrage of arrows from above. The poor bastards were confused to the extreme, uncertain as to whether they should have their shields above their heads to protect from the arrows or held out in front of them to brave the charge. Honestly, both response left them open to death either way and because each Ironborn made the decision independently, it didn't matter, the charge would sweep them away.

Jon roared a wordless battle cry as he launched himself at the first Ironborn he could see. Not slowing down in the slightest, his sword stabbed straight into the man's heart... and Jon carried on moving forwards, barrelling over confused Ironborn with the corpse of their companion upon his blade. With a savage kick he pushed the corpse from his blade, slashing out with the blade as soon as it was free at an attacking man's over-extended arm. Blood gushed at him as he took the man's sword arm in one clean stroke. His second slash cut through the man's face but failed to break the skull, leaving the one-armed man with his face barely held together.

The mercy for the man was that he wouldn't last much longer.

Jon didn't allow himself to dwell on the death of the Ironborn solider, instead blocking an axe-swipe with his ironwood shield and roaring as he ducked to the side to push his sword between the ribs of his attacker. The man grimaced as blood gurgled up between his lips even as Jon growled and withdrew his sword, kicking the man over to save the time of him falling, already moving on to a different fight.

The Summer Knights of the South thought that battle was all single combat and honour. But right here, in the middle of the battle, Jon knew the true nature of battle. Battle was a confusing mix of blood, sweat and mud. There was no room for honour in such battle, only survival and, hopefully, victory.

Jon found himself facing a monstrously tall Ironborn, armed with a tremendous axe. He seemed to be as tall and as broad as Jon had imagined The Mountain to be. Jon had done some research through Lord Varys about notable Ironborn due to the mounting tensions. And this brute of a man matched the description of one Andrik the Unsmiling, a man renowned as one of the best warriors in all the Iron Islands. Having the man's first attack with the axe actually shear a section of his ironwood shield off, Jon was inclined to believe the reports were not exaggerated.

But he refused to back down before the man who could only be the Ironborn's captain at this gate. With a roar he launched himself at the big bastard, slashing for his arms. Andrik managed to dodge backwards but not fully; a bright red gash opened up along one of his forearms. Apparently being injured angered the big Ironborn because he swung his massive, two-handed, axe in a colossal upwards swing across Jon's body, clearly trying to cut him in two. Jon managed to jump back but had made the mistake of instinctively moving his sword to block the attack.

Jon cursed a dozen oaths as fast as possible as his sword was wrenched from his hand from the force of the attack. The weapon was sent spinning away and Jon's arm felt like he had just punched a stone wall. He gathered himself just in time to spot the giant man thrusting his axe forwards like a spear - the sharp point on the head of the axe coming straight for him. Jon pulled his shield in front of the attack at the last minute and the point buried itself into the centre of the wood.

For a second Jon could have sworn he felt the point of the axe just barely touching his arm underneath his shield.

It was only for a second because Andrik reached round the side of the shield with one hand and grabbed Jon by the edge of his chest piece, lifting the armoured knight off the ground before throwing him to the muddy, bloody, ground. The air rushed out of Jon's lungs all at once as he landed on his back in the carnage. Before he could think to move, Andrik was there, standing over him with his two-handed axe held high above his head.

Jon knew there was no way he could defend himself against such an attack - it would tear right through his shield. And even if it didn't, the force of it would likely break his shield arm and he would be wide open for the second attack. There was no way for him to mount a defence that wouldn't fail him.

But he wasn't about to die here - not with his family threatened mere yards from him.

Andrik, like most of the Ironborn here, didn't wear heavy armour like knights or even men-at-arms. They wore heavy leathers, sure, but nothing that would drag them below the waves was worn, almost as a cultural rule. And, unfortunately for Andrik, Jon had designed his armour with being disarmed in mind. With an almighty roar, Jon surged up from the ground, stabbing up with the armoured claws of his right gauntlet... right through the leather and into the Ironborn's 'stones'.

The giant of a man bellowed in pain but the axe didn't come down - he was stunned by the pain of having his stones shredded with five sharp metal claws. Scrambling to his feet, losing his shield in the process, Jon drew his dirk from its sheath on his leg.

Fuck The Plan, this fucker had to die right now!

While still close to the ground he stabbed forwards, cutting through the giant's left hamstring. No matter how strong a man is, that brings them low and Andrik was no exception. The mighty Ironborn fell to one knee, almost weeping in pain from his stones and now his hamstring. Jon scrambled for a weapon before he found a hand axe on the ground. Covered in blood but it would do nicely. Standing behind the downed Andrik, Jon grabbed the man by his short hair, raising the hand axe high above his head.

He slammed the axe into the side of the man's neck and almost immediately the death-gurgle began escaping from Andrik's, even though the one strike from the axe had cut barely half the way through his neck. Yanking the blunt axe free from the wound, Jon ignored how blood sprayed from the wound, coating him almost instantly. Instead he dug deep, gripped the axe with both hands and struck once more.

Andrik the Unsmiling's head rolled away as his body fell to the ground.

There were very few Ironborn actually still alive but upon seeing their champion executed, they tried to surrender... but no quarter was given. The remainder of the Ironborn were put to the sword and the Hunter's Gate was quiet for the time being. Jon wiped his face mostly clear of blood with his arm before nodding to Gendry, who appeared before him, positively dripping in gore.

The warhammer was not a clean weapon when fighting men without true armour.

"Rally the men, make sure that everyone who lost his shield gets one." he ordered before pausing, glancing at the carpet of bodies around them, "Take them from the dead if needs be."

Gendry relayed his orders to the Foot as the gate began to open. Ser Rodrick Cassel came running forwards, bow in hand and a massive grin on his face. Jon smiled tiredly back in return... his body was beginning to return to its resting state and without the threat of death, Jon was able to tell just how tired he truly was,

"Well met Ser Rodrick."

The old, rather fat, knight just laughed at his greeting before clasping both hands onto his shoulders,

"Jon Snow, as I live and breathe!" he declared before chuckling to himself, "Sorry... Ser Jon Whitewolf now, I must remember. You always were a canny kid and a good sword but that truly was something else my boy. Quick, let's get you and your men inside, that way we can hold off Theon Turncoat's men indefinitely!"

Jon placed a hand on Rodrick's shoulder, stopping him from leading Jon into the castle. The older knight looked confused but Jon just smiled even as his archers left the tree line to man the gate and the surrounding stretch of wall alongside the defenders,

"I'm afraid not Ser Rodrick." he told the older knight, "We have a strategy in place that we hope will mean Theon will have to break the siege due to a lack of men. We're going to bleed him dry Ser Rodrick."

Rodrick was distracted by the Foot rearranging themselves into a solid shield wall in front of the gate itself, forming a solid block of shields and men, the gate protecting their backs. Seeing he was free to do as he pleased for now, Jon picked his way through the bodies, morbidly looking for one of his own dead to take a strong shield from. Seeing one, he reached down to take it, stopping dead in his tracks when he noticed it was still attached to the arm of the squire he had spoken to before.

He had to recognise him from his armour and size as someone had taken his head from him.

Jon wanted to feel something about the young man's death but he didn't have the time to cry over someone's death, not now. The Plan was the only thing that might lift this siege, as far as Jon could tell, and that was more important right now. One life was better than many lives after all.

Taking the shield, the attached it to his off arm before being handed a decent spear by one of the archers who was passing through. Some of the archers had been holding the spears that the Foot would be needing for the next part of The Plan. Ser Rodrick seemed to understand what they were planning on doing,

"You're going to fight them at the gates?" the old knight asked, bewildered and worried, "But they'll smash you against them like a hammer against an anvil!"

Honestly, he appreciated how his old trainer worried for him, he really did, but he was a little disappointed that Rodrick thought Jon had forgotten everything he had ever taught him about facing the enemy in battle. On the contrary, he was banking on Ser Rodrick's teachings. Mainly because Theon had learnt from the man as well so Theon would know just as well as Ser Rodrick that attacking an enemy with no escape with superior numbers was how to destroyed an enemy host utterly – the main trick in battle was navigating your enemy into that position and here Jon was, offering it to Theon on a silver platter.

Theon Greyjoy was a vein little man, in Jon's opinion, and would likely dismiss any claims that Jon was baiting him for whatever reason. Jon was also, kind of banking on the idea that Theon hated him enough to commit almost his entire force on ending his life rather than continuing to try and breach the walls of Winterfell.

"Ironborn! Coming round both sides!"

And Theon had taken the bait.

Ironborn forces were being diverted from the assaults on the North gate and the East gate (the Wintertown Gate) to attack his forces braced at the bottom of the Hunter's gate. Ser Rodrick still didn't know what he had planned but the old warrior merely nodded his head, a sober sort of pride on his face as he regarded Jon,

"I will fight with you Jon." He spoke with a finality that Jon didn't quite agree with, "All the way until we reach the gods if needs be."

Touched though he was by the sentiment from the old knight, he couldn't risk the best commander within the castle walls,

"Ser Rodrick… return to the castle." He told the old knight firmly, "My siblings need you. Should my gambit here fail you will be their commander and their defender. Swear to me Ser Rodrick – Swear to me by the Old Gods and the New that you will dedicate yourself to their protection should I fall and go now to ensure this."

The older knight looked torn but the seriousness of the situation seemed to push him to accept what Jon had said with merely a nod. Side by side they moved back to the shield wall that had been erected, the shields pulling away to let them pass. He clasped hands with Rodrick one last time before the old knight was back within the walls of Winterfell and Jon stepped up to the second row of the shield wall, right in the centre. He raised his shield to cover his own neck and one shoulder each of the men in front of him, his spear pointed straight forwards, resting on the edge of the shield for ease.

There was a tense silence as they all tried to prepare themselves, both mentally and physically.

Every man down in front of the gate knew the Ironborn were coming, from both the north and, by way of the east, the south as well. They would face numbers perhaps five times their own and there was no way for them to retreat. By design they were going to stand here, the perfect targets, and fight and die in front of the Hunter's Gate of Winterfell. Sensing, the atmosphere, Jon spoke, even as Ironborn became visible to both the south and the north,

"Anyone who wants to back out… do so now." He called out, his voice carrying in the silence of the Foot, "Know that no man who backs down now will be called craven. The bravest men I have ever met stand shoulder to shoulder with me right now – not fighting in this one battle won't change that a bit."

More silence.

From the Foot anyway, the Ironborn were making quite the racket as they manoeuvred themselves to face his meagre forces. After a few more moments it was clear that someone, hopefully Theon himself, was co-ordinating the Ironborn as they were forming up as a square, out of reach from the archers on the wall. More Ironborn were joining the ranks from both directions, the force before them already dwarfing Jon's Foot.

"Ned, feel like running back to Dorne yet?"

As Gendry… always quick to poke fun of people, especially poor little Edric. Well, poor little Edric who was soon to be Lord Edric and was actually taller than Jon himself. In true fashion for their friendship, Edric fired back a retort,

"Of course not – we've got squid that needs killing." He shot back before adding, "When Ironborn die… they shit themselves right?"

There was a murmur of confused agreement of the fact that Jon joined in on, unsure where his squire was going with this retort,

"You reckon if we kill all those squids… maybe it'll smell enough like King's Landing for you to feel homesick?"

The laughter came from all directions at that, including both Gendry and Jon. Jon had never been to King's Landing but he had heard, just like everybody else, how much it stank of shit. Probably had something to do with half a million people living within the same limited space with a terrible sewer system. Either that or the people of the South washed less than they liked to make people think they did – either way, Jon was glad that he would likely never see the capital.

Didn't seem like it would be worth the months of hard travelling to get there.

There didn't seem to be any more Ironborn showing up and there was a massive host arrayed before them now. Although by Jon's estimate the entire Ironborn force wasn't in front of them right now. Probably around five hundred, maybe six hundred. Either way, his Foot had taken more losses taking the gate in the first place. If he had to guess he'd say they were sitting at almost exactly 100 men – so five to one or six to one odds, neither seemed to be any better than the other to be honest but Jon knew the archers would at happen the advantage that the Ironborn had.

Oh… what was this?

A mount man in front of the entirely unmounted Ironborn host? Jon's grip tightened on the spear in his hand. Theon always had enjoyed lording his position over people, even when said position hadn't been that great when he was just Lord Stark's ward. Now that he seemed to be a legitimate battle commander? The man was likely acting like his army made him some kind of King or some such rot. The man's ego had always come first after all.

"Jon Snow!"

And he seemed not to have grown up enough to realise that Jon had EARNED himself a new name. Either that or, much more likely, the heir to the Iron Islands preferred to speak down to Jon as if he was still the same clueless bastard from their time together as boys. Either way, Jon wasn't about to let Theon get the best of him here. Not after what the cunt had dared to do to Jon's homeland, its people and his family.

"That's Whitewolf to you squid!"

A couple of jeers from his own men made Jon almost want to smile but he was currently resisting the temptation to charge right at Theon, pull him from his horse and tear his throat out with his own hands. Theon moved his horse closer, apparently either arrogant or confident enough to suggest that Jon's archers wouldn't shoot him dead for daring to move closer,

"You'll always be a bastard Snow, no matter what name people give you."

Jon gritted his teeth but held back on any order to attack. Theon Greyjoy would not die quickly from arrows, he would die slowly and he would die by Jon's own hand,

"Better a bastard of Winterfell than a true heir of Pyke!"

That seemed to have gotten a reaction from Theon, as the older man leaned forwards on his horse to sneer at Jon. At least he thought it was a sneer – Theon wasn't stupid enough to get close enough for Jon to reasonably get his hands on him after all,

"The Ironborn are all over The North, Snow!" he shot back, "And before long this true heir of Pyke will have Winterfell under his command! And all your family will be put to the sword, just as your father and his fat king put my brothers to death!"

The difference, Jon couldn't help but think, was that Theon's brothers were cunts.

"You must have me confused with Ros, squid!" he fired back, "I don't want to hear your excuses about why you can't get it up! Oh your brothers are dead… oh my islands are dirt poor… do us all a favour and drop dead you useless cunt! You never did learn to grow a pair of stones and actually fucking make something of yourself!"

More jeers from Jon's Foot but they were all squaring themselves up to withstanding a charge, knowing that Theon wouldn't be able to just sit there bandying words for too much longer. The Ironborn would start to doubt his resolve to actually attack if the fucker didn't get a move on and prove himself to not be a craven,

"Enough!" he roared back, face reddened from embarrassment, "I will kill your brothers! I will rape your woman, Dacey Mormont, right in front of you! And that's before I rape your whore sisters! And there's only one way you can stop that from happening Bastard! Step forwards… and kiss my fucking boot! Swear loyalty to me as Lord of Winterfell and I'll consider being merciful!"

Well that was the end of the conversation portion of today then it seemed. Not even taking a second to consider the 'offer', Jon merely growled and began to hammer his spear against his shield. The rest of his men got the idea and soon they were banging their spears against their shields in perfect time with one another, creating a great din. Theon turned back to his men and seemed to inspect them briefly before ordering the charge with a wave of his sword.

The only mounted man and he wasn't even going to take part in the battle, he was just standing back with a reserve of roughly two hundred men. Leaving the remaining four hundred or so to charge right at Jon's line. Gritting his teeth, he moved to keep his footing better,

"Plant yourselves!"

The men turned to face the incoming impact, bracing themselves as best they could with their shields and their feet. Ironborn men were hurtling towards them but Jon was trying to keep his voice steady as he spoke the commands,

"Archers… loose!"

A storm of arrows were released, going beyond his own lines to hit the Ironborn when they were merely yards away from his shield wall. Many were felled by the arrows but most of them were just staggered by the sudden obstacle of the corpses of men who had been rushing ahead of them just moments ago. The charge was weakened by this delay but by no means was it stopped.

Even though he was in the second row, Jon felt the impact of dozens of bodies pressing against his shield, so much so that he even skidded backwards a little before being propped up better by the man behind him. With his balance assured, Jon stabbed forwards with his spear, just as many of the men in the second and third rows were doing as well. The tip of his spear burst through the eye of one unfortunate Ironborn, who fell and was immediately replaced by a man who was almost pushed throat-first onto Jon's spear by the Ironborn behind him. Didn't matter to Jon, a dead squid was a dead squid.

Again and again he jabbed forwards with his spear, all the while ignoring how numb his shield arm was becoming from having the weight of the Ironborn infantry pressing incessantly on it. Thankfully the captains of the archers had long since given the order to fire freely and flurries of arrows were being loosed into the rear ranks of the Ironborn, thankfully still too far back for even bad shots to hit any of Jon's own Foot.

But his own men didn't have to die from friendly fire, they were as mortal as any other.

Jon watched the man to the front of him, and slightly to the right, go down with an axe breaking his skull, making a momentary gap. The shield wall was only strong when its unity was whole and both sides knew this.

"Plug that hole!" roared a voice, which Jon realised only later was his own, grown hoarse from shouting encouragement to his men and insults to the enemy, "PLUG THE GAP!"

A man to Jon's right pushed forwards to plug the hole but slipped in the mud before he was set upon by a dozen sword points. Growling in anger, Jon gutted one of the killer's with his spear before it was cut off near the tip by one of the axe users. He was now in the second row of a shield wall without a weapon with reach – only one thing for it now,

"Push off! Three! Two! One! PUSH!"

The entire shield wall, every row, pushed forwards. The first row lashed out with their shields as the subsequent rows surged forwards, their momentum being used by the first row to better batter the Ironborn back for just the split second of breathing room that they actually needed. Jon pushed his way forwards, taking the position at the first row of the shield wall, his shield held high with the warrior to either side of himself and his dirk held in his main sword hand. When the Ironborn surged back forwards, Jon lashed out with a roar, burying his short blade into the first man's neck, before pulling it out much more forcefully than needed, tearing the poor bastard's entire throat out with the blade.

But, of course, it didn't take even a handful of seconds before the man was replaced by another, this one swinging an axe at Jon. Ducking down, Jon's shield weathered the blow and Jon's short blade darted out underneath his own shield, puncturing the man's side multiple times as Jon tenderised his kidneys and stomach.

And another man just took his place.

The repetition of battle took hold of Jon and he let it, reacting on instinct allowed and attacking as his training had drilled into him long ago. Dodge the attack from the man before him, lash out with the dirk, pull back if striking arm in danger, press forwards if not, get the kill, brace for impact of next body, repeat. Many who had never fought in battles such as this could never understand how killing men in some gruesome ways (cutting throats open, breaking necks with strong stabs and even more eye stabbing) could become repetitive. Only a warrior could understand how the body just… switched off. His father had called it the battle rage – where the only thing that mattered to you was making sure the enemy in front of you was dead, regardless of how, because it meant you would survive and it meant your anger would continue to sing through your veins with glorious purpose.

He didn't know how long it was before something broke the routine of the attacks. But he would forever remember the Ironborn who stabbed at his left, which was merely a feint for a stab to his right. Jon managed to avoid losing his eye, and his brains, but the sword cut a bloody line down his right cheek, cutting straight through a part of his ear as well, splitting his ear through the middle slightly, and taking a fairly wide chunk from it. Jon retaliated, stabbing the wrist that held the blade with his dirk before jabbing it through the bottom of the man's mouth as he screamed, stabbing straight up into his brain even as hands from behind him dragged him away from the first row, fresh men from the third and fourth (the final) row moving up to take his place.

Swearing in a dozen different ways, Jon held his ear, checking if he would lose the ear. Thankfully it seemed, in his very limited medical experience, that he would just be losing a small chunk, the width of a sword, from his ear. The cut along his cheek seemed deep enough to scar but didn't seem to have cut into his actual mouth. After checking his wounds, Jon moved to the single squire who knelt at the back of the shield wall, pressed right up against the gate as he passed men skins of water. He snatch up a skin of water, using some of it to wash the blood from his face, taking a pull afterwards before handing the skin back to the young squire,

"Boy!" he shouted over the noise of clashing steel, brute strength and dying men, "How long since the first clash?!"

The squire looked deathly afraid but Jon couldn't begrudge him that particular feeling to be honest, not when the young man had likely be pushed back against the gate, almost crushed, a few times by now,

"Somewhere in the region of around an hour Ser! The sun dips! It'll be dusk before long Ser!"

Old Gods and the New! He knew he had lost track of time when he had lost himself in the rhythm of battle but an hour? No wonder his arms felt like lead. A blast of a horn from the Ironborn reserves sounded and Jon pushed himself forwards into the shield wall to get a better look at what was going on. All of a sudden the pressure from the front row was released as the Ironborn began a rather hectic retreat back to the reserves. Jon immediately had to hold one of his knights back,

"Hold the lines! HOLD DAMN YOU!" he roared, "They're swapping out for fresh troops! Rotate the lines! Third and fourth lines move up, you're first and second now! First and second lines, fall back, rearm if needed and grab water and wine! Quickly! Before they organise the second wave!"

The men moved to his command as Jon made sure to keep an eye on the retreating Ironborn and take a count of the losses from both sides. By far the biggest losses had been had by the Ironborn but they had more men to lose in the first place and their grouping had meant the archers had a big enough target to get many arrows to take root in the bodies of Ironborn men. Jon, now in the second row again with his sword back in hand (one of the squires having picked it up at some point before), patted one of the men in front of him on the back,

"Give any of our brothers mercy."

The man nodded in understanding, taking a spear from one of the men in the second row before picking his way through the dying laid in front of the shield wall, using his spear to put an end to the suffering of the mortally wounded members of their brotherhood, helping the lightly wounded up onto their feet and through the shield wall, where the gate was opened a little way to allow those salvageable to receive treatment from maester Luwin, who had set up an impromptu medical station just on the other side of the gates.

Jon noted the man he had selected to give mercy was specifically avoiding the mortally wounded Ironborn… and in fact seemed to be mortally wounding the lightly wounded before moving on. It was hardly honourable but Jon wasn't about to condemn the man for only giving mercy to the members of their orders. Doubtlessly, the Ironborn would have done the same to them if they had been routed in the first attack.

The wave attacks were what Ser Rodrick had told him to be wary of when he was younger. When he was younger Jon, like many boys, believed that massive battles were nothing but a massive clash of arms. When it fact, most large exchanges tended to happen in waves, with each side sending their forces in for only a brief exchange before they both pulled back to be replaced by fresh troops. Deepwood Motte had been a surprise attack that had turned into storming a keep, a battle that demanded constantly clashes and pushing. But open field warfare like this? Waves crashed against the entrenched defenders until one side routed.

Seemed Theon had been arrogant enough to ignore all of Ser Rodrick's lessons.

Theon Greyjoy, because he had been educated with Robb and Jon, was the only Ironborn that Jon actually feared to have within The North. The others? They were raiders. They could attempt to hold a keep all they liked but they just weren't educated in how to conduct warfare within the rest of the Seven Kingdoms – only Theon was. Theon was all Ironborn ferocity and anger, tempered with some of the best military education from the mainland. In hindsight it had been foolish of Father in the extreme to allow the Greyjoy to take lessons in how the rest of Westeros waged war – all it did was let the canny little fucking squid know what to do and how to counter effective strategies.

Thankfully, Theon Greyjoy hadn't heard of half of the tactics and examples than Samwell Tarly had so Jon was still confident in the Plan.

The second wave of Ironborn began their charge. This group was, again, around four hundred strong so the odds were still… well, they were still shit. The only good thing, as far as Jon was concerned, was that only around fifty men stayed with Theon at the rear. So if his first estimate of six hundred men had been accurate, their little holding effort had cost the Ironborn around one hundred and fifty men. Consistent losses like those would be enough for even the Ironborn to rout.

Besides… they just had to hold a little longer because to the east, Jon could detect a tiny stream of white smoke. Gods he hoped the plan would work as well as Sam had told him that it would.

Properly brace, Jon roared along with his men as the second wave of fresh Ironborn slammed into their lines. His sword stabbed out, cutting cheeks open, claiming noses, ears and eyes as he pushed it into the faces of his enemies, not happy with them being able to push his shield wall even a few feet back. They were, unavoidably, being pushed back, but the thick layer of bloody mud under their feet had a lot to do with that.

An Ironborn stabbed forwards with his sword and Jon howled in pain and anger as the metal stabbed into his left shoulder. Using the pain as motivation, Jon grabbed the man by the sword hand before chopping it off with his own blade, extracting the Ironborn's blade from his shoulder but not chancing the trip further back to recover a little. The Ironborn were pushing harder and they couldn't afford even a second of lessened resistance or all was lost.

Through the noise of steel clashing against steel and the screams of dying men, a sound cut through the air. The same noise, from five different places.

Ironborn and Northmen alike, so long as they weren't on the first lines, stopped their efforts momentarily to identify the sound. It took the Northmen only seconds, which brought about a massive collective cheer. The sounds of five Direwolves howling at once was a magical, if rather threatening, noise that chilled the Ironborn to the bone and warmed the hearts of the Northmen. From his place in the centre of the shield wall, Jon couldn't actually see what was happening but he knew what was happening because it had all happened as according to Plan.

Jon had presented an irresistible target for Theon, who had pulled the majority of his forces to this one section of the walls, leaving only token forces at the other gates to continue the siege. The cavalry of the Lords had been split into two groups; East Gate Group, commanded by the Golden Knight, Lancel Lannister and North Gate Group, commanded by Harrion Karstark, the Cold Son. They had just over fifty horsemen each but fifty heavy cavalry against surprised foot soldiers was an easy bet.

Having lifted the siege on the other gates, they had been bolstered by the horsemen of House Stark, bolstering each group to just over a hundred mounted men with lance and greatswords. And, it seemed, the other Stark children had allowed their Direwolves to follow Ghost, the former runt, into battle. Though Ghost followed his commands exactly, he had learned to take heed of some commands from others, in this case Harrion Karstark. So the Northern Gate Group was sweeping in from the Northern side with a hundred mounted men and FIVE Direwolves while Lancel Lannister's East Gate Group was thundering from the south with just as many heavy lances and swords.

The Ironborn in front of Jon began to fall back without any command being given, the beginnings of the rout that would end this battle so long as they could inflict enough casualties that they thought better of reforming. Keen to make sure they had no chance of regrouping before the calvary charge hit their flanks (and keen to make sure the flanks were STILL the flanks by keeping the majority pointing at his own Foot), Jon snatched up a spear from a nearby knight, roaring as he threw it into the chest of one of the retreating Ironborn. Pushing his way through the shields, dropping his own in the process, he buried his sword into the throat of one of the few Ironborn still fighting before drawing the sword back out and cutting the man's head from his neck with a single swing of his sword.

Both Foot seemed to pause for a moment at his sudden charge from the defensive position,

"ROUT THEM! CHARGE!"

His own Foot seemed to wake up at the same time as the Ironborn and rushed forwards, shields dropped for better mobility as they descended upon the Ironborn, reinvigorated by the arrival of the cavalry and the chance to be the attackers for a change in this battle. Jon waded forwards, cutting an Ironborn's leg off at the knee, leaving him to fall to the ground to bleed to death even as his weakened left arm took up his dirk and stabbed into the neck of an Ironborn who had blocked his sword's slash to the chest,

"LEAVE NONE ALIVE! NO QUARTER GIVEN FOR IRONBORN SCUM!"

The Ironborn had their backs to the Foot now, they were in full retreat. No… A retreated was organised. This was a rout, a true rout. No honour in cutting a man down as he fled but no chance any of his men were going to take prisoners or let these raiders live to harass the North until they could be properly mopped up. An almighty crash was heard from up ahead and Jon just had to laugh… the cavalry from both sides had slammed into the flanks of the routed Ironborn at the same time. Honestly, it couldn't have been better timed if it had been a play or a distraction at a tournament.

Multiple howls and growls from his right. Jon turned and was almost knocked over by five, very excited, very eager, Direwolves. Every one of them had thick blood covering their mouths but not one of them seemed injured. Seemed Ironborn could raid whomever they liked but they feared the Direwolves, and rightfully so. Ghost looked to him for commands and the rest seemed to follow his lead, turning to look at him.

Jon would swear to the day he died that the grin he wore could have made the Mad King seem sane as he charged forwards, the Direwolves of his family charging with him,

"TEAR THEM APART! LET THEIR BLOOD WATER THE LAND OF THE NORTH!"

Stabbing his sword into an Ironborn's back, he stabbed so hard the man was actually lifted off the ground momentarily, screaming all the way. Unfortunately the sword was stuck right up inside the man and Jon was tiring too much to bother pulling it free. The Direwolves were tearing men down left and right, biting out their hamstrings first before falling upon their exposed throats, drinking down the lifeblood of dozens of men in mere minutes. Spotting one of the cavalry's horses, dead upon the ground, Jon grabbed the greatsword that had been strapped to the horse's side for when the rider's lance had broken. Newly rearmed, Jon joined the fray with the wolves, cutting off limbs and leaving the wolves to tear the downed men's throats out when they fell. It was only when he reached the treeline, perhaps a hundred or more yards from the Hunter's gate that Jon was pulled back from the pursuit by a very pale-Samwell Tarly. He snarled at the other man, his blood still up and neither hide nor hair of Theon Greyjoy to be found. The Direwolves all seemed to break off pursuit as well, circling Sam with their mouths filled with blood, growling just as Jon was.

The Tarly youth likely pissed himself from the smell but none who were that day would likely blame him for what he was staring down,

"What Sam?!" Jon demanded, his voice rough and hoarse from continuously shouting his commands and war cries, "The fucking squid is escaping!"

To his credit, Sam, despite being craven, did not back up in the face of Jon's rage,

"It's going to be dark any minute now Jon!" he reasoned, an argument that made Jon look to the sky and take note of the setting sun and visible stars, "We can't track them at night without risking an ambush… we have to let them go."

It made sense.

It made perfect fucking sense.

But Jon didn't want something that made sense, he wanted the satisfaction of killing Theon fucking Greyjoy for what he had done to Dacey and for threatening the lives of his family! With a frustrated growl, Jon spotted a wounded Ironborn raider attempting to crawl away. He made towards the man with a dark scowl. The Direwolves made to set upon the man but he snarled at them wordlessly and the deadly wolves, which had killed many men today, took one look at him before bowing their heads and backing off from his kill.

Raising the greatsword over his head, Jon roared as he stabbed it straight down into the back of the man's skull, splitting it open like a ripe melon and burying the sword down to the hilt into the ground.

His rage and the battle-lust clearing, Jon's strength left him and he slumped against the greatsword, resting his face against the cold leather of the hilt as Samwell came to stand closer, the wolves either sitting down around him or, as was the case with Nymeria, continuing to kill the wounded. Jon just knelt there on the back of the man's who's head his borrowed greatsword had broken apart, letting the rush of battle slowly leave him… leaving his just a tired young man who had killed dozens of men and seen friends cut down in the defence of his home.

When he spoke his voice was quiet, his throat sore from the rough use it had endured,

"Sam… In Wintertown… did they find Dacey?"

Sam moved a little closer, placing a reassuring hand on Jon's shoulder,

"They did. She's fine. A few cuts and a lot of bruises, but she's alright." He paused before adding, almost fearfully, "She said that Theon Greyjoy forbid his men from raping her. Said he wanted you to watch."

That should have gotten him angry but… Jon had been running on red-hot fury for the better part of the battle, using it as a pool of strength to keep him going. After between two to three hours of slaughter? He didn't have anything left inside of him to be angry, all he could muster was a tiny amount of relief,

"Good. Good…" he muttered tiredly, almost to himself before pushing to ask the one question he dreaded, "How many of our brothers do you think we will have to bury from this Sam?"

Silence from the Tarly man.

Hmm.

He thought as much as well. Didn't matter what the actual number was, the answer was still the same. Too fucking many. And yes, they had made the Ironborn bleed for it but some yet lived. That would be rectified. He would hunt them all down himself if he had to and he would make sure they knew true Hell when he found them.

House Baratheon didn't have the only Fury worth worrying about – Jon was a Stark, even if he was a bastard and even if he had taken the name Whitewolf for himself. He was a Stark and Winter Was Coming and it was bringing with it all the fury of the harshest snows and ice. Winter Was Coming and it was coming for the Ironborn… it was coming for Theon Greyjoy and his entire, cursed, family.

He would see them all dead.


	16. Chapter 16

**AN - Still no beta-reader so I apologise for any dips in quality, I am just trying to keep the flow going. If anyone wishes to volunteer their services as a beta then please do not hesitate to contact me. Thank you all again for your continued support.**

Warmth

Jon grimaced as he made his way back through the Hunter's Gate. The remains of his order, some two hundred fighting men and fifty or more injured, were to be housed within Winterfell itself rather than having to camp out in the remains of Wintertown, even though many of the townsfolk were returning to the town in an attempt to pick up the shattered remains of their lives.

Some of the guards from Winterfell, along with the Greenman of the Godswood, were seeing to the dead of the order, building them burial cairns outside the Hunter's Gate in honour of their sacrifice in the defence of Winterfell, the centre of The North.

He greatly appreciated the work that they were carrying out for his dead because Jon wasn't exactly in the right frame of mind or condition to see to the arrangements himself. He was beyond tired and his shoulder was aching and bleeding rather freely still. One of the servants had come to him, seeing him standing amongst the Direwolves on the battlefield, and relayed a message from the Keep.

While both their father and Robb were gone, Bran was Lord of Winterfell and his commands were law in The North. He had waved off maester Luwin when asked about seeing him for treatment immediately. Jon knew there were others with worse right now... and the maester was too busy to press the issue honestly so he made his way to the keep, his feet taking him automatically to where he had grown up.

The Direwolves were following him on instinct but seemed to also find the time to play with each other. They nipped each other playfully and all of the wolves of Winterfell seemed to be rather happy to be reunited with Ghost, if he was any judge of wolf-mannerisms that was at least. Ignoring their playful little games for now, he was admitted to the main hall and stepped inside, immediately seeing the high table was up with the remaining Stark children sat behind it.

Arya seemed to want to rush over to him but restrained herself for now as he approached the raised dais. He looked over his siblings, noting how Sansa looked worried for him, Arya looked as restless as she always did, Rickon was excited and Bran looked like he was trying to hide his relief behind the young man's estimation of a 'lordly demeanour'. Knowing that his brother was acting Lord of Winterfell, Jon stopped at the edge of the dais and knelt on one knee before Bran,

"My Lord." he greeted with a bowed head, "The Siege of Winterfell has been lifted. My Order and I are at your disposal."

The formal wording seemed to be a cause for dismay with Arya but Bran was able to shift slightly in his seat and assume the same lordly demeanour as before,

"Rise Ser Jon." he declared and Jon rose to his feet again, wincing slightly at his shoulder wound, "You have fought bravely in our defence. If you would ask a boon of me, I shall, as temporary Lord of Winterfell, do my best to grant it."

Oh very formal from Bran there! He almost chuckled but did manage to smile a little bit, opening his arms a little bit to his sides,

"How about a hug from my brothers and sisters for now?"

Arya didn't wait - she literally vaulted over the table to crash into him in a bone-crushing hug. He ignored how much said hug hurt his shoulder wound for his youngest sister's sake, catching Rickon's no less energetic hug with his uninjured side. He just smiled as he held them to him tightly even as Bran and Sansa followed at a more sedate pace.

Sansa was, without a doubt, more beautiful than she had been when last they'd met. She was now 16 and a maiden flowered - she was currently rather comfortable as Lady of Winterfell so wasn't betrothed to anyone just yet. The younger of his sisters, Arya, was almost 15 now and was growing into her beauty, much to her annoyance as he had gathered from the letters they had exchanged. Of course both Bran and Rickon were older now as well, Bran being almost 14 and Rickon being just 12.

His family was growing up while he was away fighting bandits and, more recently, Ironborn. He missed seeing them all the time but he knew his decision to work with his order was the correct one to make.

Just as he knew it was for the best that he speak with Sansa and Bran about this next part alone. Rickon wouldn't understand and Arya would do her best to make sure she went with him and he would not have his little sister in danger. And he knew if she knew of his plans beforehand she would find a way to stowaway and follow him - so best she didn't know,

"Rickon... Arya..." he smiled down at their rather expectant faces, "I need you to go round up the wolves. They won't respond to anyone who isn't one of us right now - they're a bit crazy with all the blood they've had. See them locked away safely and fed for me guys?"

Rickon seemed excited to carry out the task and left to do so but Arya just stared at him, her eyes narrowed suspiciously,

"Why do I have to go?"

Jon rolled his eyes but made a point of leaning in close to whisper,

"Because you're the only one I trust here to keep Rickon from losing his fingers."

She snorted in amusement at that before deciding that he might have a point beyond just teasing her. As she followed Rickon she made sure to shoot suspicious glances at him over her shoulder. Jon made sure to smile back at her until she was gone, where the smile fell from his face,

"She's not changed. At all." he remarked to Sansa and Bran. He clasped hands with Bran before kissing Sansa lightly on the forehead, "I'm glad to see you both well. I feared the worst."

Sansa tutted as she touched his armour around his shoulder, peering in the gap between the metal at the wound,

"Jon... why did you insist on coming straight away? We would have understood." she told him softly as she took his hand, "Come, I've done some wound dressings before."

Jon didn't have the heart to mention that wrapping a favour around a cut on a jouster's hand wasn't the same as dressing a wound. But she might have expanded upon that experience in the last two years but he doubted it honestly. He resisted the tug at his hand to speak with Bran,

"We have things to discuss the situation Bran. Shall we go to Father's solar?" he suggested, prompting Sansa to start leading him there instead, much to his amusement, "Seems Sansa is already agreeing for you little brother."

Bran sighed a little bit but hurried after them, opening the door to their father's solar with one of the many keys on a ring at his side. Once inside, Jon was pushed down into a seat as Sansa began to tug at the straps of his armour. She seemed to have more experience than he would have otherwise supposed considering the armour of his arm came away rather easily. He groaned as the lack of pressure on the wound from his armour meant the blood flowed more freely into the leather of his under clothes. Sansa took up a rag and a bowl of nearby water, lightly washing his wound as he winced.

As Jon's wound was being cleaned, Bran moved some scrolls and books off of father's desk to reveal a map of The North spread across it. Several wooden tokens were in place on the map he noticed, even as Bran snatched up a blue wood token from nearby Winterfell and tossed it into the fire. It seemed that Brad had a much better view of the entire situation than Jon would ever have had. He tried to stand to examine the map but Sansa just huffed and pressed a dainty little finger into the edge of the wound. He snarled in pain but remained seated, shooting his 'politely amused' sister a small glare.

Seemed that Sansa had some of the Wolfblood of The North in her perfect mannerisms.

The noise had gotten Bran's attention though and he glanced back at Jon and Sansa with an amused expression even as he scanned the map over again. He snatched up an un-opened raven scroll which had likely arrived during the battle or afterwards. No way would Theon have allowed ravens to get into Winterfell during the siege. Bran hummed and moved a wooden token of a bear back over to the corner of the map. He thought it had been moved back to Bear Island but he couldn't check because Sansa was glaring at him lightly behind her smile,

"Sit still Jon."

He stared at her for a few minutes before relenting and just sitting still as she cleaned the wound a little bit more. Chancing a glance at the wound he realised it was a lot better than he had thought it was - a rather shallow cut by all accounts, but one that had bled rather a lot. So he wouldn't be out of any fighting for too long at all - it was something of a relief considering how much combat he had been seeing in recent days. He would rather enjoy just having a day of relaxing by a fire or something like that.

Was he turning into an old man or was combat not as exciting as other young men thought it to be? Either way, Jon would gladly take a few days of drinking, eating and laughing in his order's keep over spilling more Ironborn guts. Well... for now at least. So maybe just a day off before he went back to running the scum away from The North.

Bran stepped away from the map on the desk with a thoughtful expression,

"The Ironborn have been routed from Bear Island by the remaining Mormont forces with some reinforcements from the surrounding Glover villages." he spoke as if he wasn't informing Jon, more like he was just speaking the updates aloud for his own benefit, "Father and Robb went south with around twenty thousand men. The better fighters, the men-at-arms from all the main houses, who were ready to pick up and march the soonest. That still leaves us with a further twenty thousand levies we can call... if we scrape the bottom of the barrel."

Jon glanced at Sansa who just sighed a little bit. Apparently Bran spent a lot of time doing this with himself, having discussions with himself about the best course of action. Jon decided to insert himself into the conversation,

"And how many of those twenty thousand can be armed and armoured to be worth a damn? Or given horses?"

Bran jumped, slightly surprised by someone adding something to his internal discussion it seemed. He adapted quickly however, reading off a scroll that was one of the many cluttering the side tables,

"From the entire North? Perhaps we could horse around ten thousand." he admitted as he scratched at the terrible teen stubble he was sporting now, "Although around two thousand of those would be coming from our own holdings and direct bannermen."

Two thousand horse would be more than enough to drive the pursuit of Theon Greyjoy. With Theon in their grasp the war would be a lot easier - high value hostages stopped wars far quicker than bloodshed. And despite the fact that he wanted to see Theon's head roll, he would prefer not to have to see hundreds, thousands, more Northmen die just because of that smarmy little asshole. He hummed,

"My foot will lodge in Winterfell as extra defence."

However much extra defence less than fifty men could really offer such a fortress as Winterfell.

"My archers will return to my keep to protect it along with the reserves."

Just under a hundred archers would bolster the twenty or so squires that had been left at the keep as a 'reverse'. A charitable name if ever there was one - the greenest of the boys stayed behind under the command of one of the Karstarks of a secondary branch - cousin to Harrion as he understood it. Enough to deter small bands of raiders but nothing really beyond that. The archers would really bolster the defence to make the keep, and it's town, a nut too tough for most raiding bands to attempt to crack.

"The remaining mounted forces of my Order will help you rally the horse of the region. I'll be with them and would assume command of the host if you would think it well."

He might well have been the only person in this room with experience as a battlefield commanders. He might well be the only person in the room with experience of killing a man. But he was still, certainly, the only bastard in the room. Bran was the Lord of Winterfell in father and Robb's absence, his word was law amongst the bannermen and within this room as well.

The room was oddly silent for a few moments before Bran spoke again,

"We shall split our force between two commanders." he declared firmly, "You shall take roughly half the force including all of your knights and the mounted troops we can gather from the immediate area."

Often splitting command between two was a bad idea, it tended to confuse the host as a whole. But he understood it a little bit more in this situation - he was a bastard. His own knights would follow him over any one else and the mounted troops from the surrounding area of Winterfell would be more likely to follow him because they knew more about him. Those from the outer regions of Winterfell's own direct banners wouldn't know him enough to look past his heritage.

They would need a true-born noble to lead them.

"I will lead the remainder of the host."

This time when he stood up Sansa didn't even try and stop him - she was just as surprised as he was. He took a few steps closer to Bran to look him in the eyes. His younger brother wanted to lead men into battle? He had to look in the younger man's eyes and see the truth. See if his younger brother was just full of youthful bravado or the like.

One look into Bran's eyes revealed something that assured Jon of his brother's continued sanity - he was afraid.

It made a certain kind of sense. People would follow a true-born noble rather than a bastard and those same people would look past how Green Bran was because of one simple thing - his name. Bran wasn't just Jon's little brother, he was Bran Stark of Winterfell. Even if he was green enough to piss grass, people would follow him into battle. The younger man seemed to have a head for strategy as it was so being a commander might come easily to him but he refused to accept that his younger brother was ready to fight in a battle.

He might have been only slightly older when he first took a life but that was different. Bran wasn't him, he couldn't be ready to take a life. But... he supposed that almost no one ever was ready to take a life. Not until they already had. He took a deep breath,

"You'll not be in the vanguard."

It was not a question and it seemed, by the wince, that Bran knew it as well. Both of them knew that Bran outranked him by quite some stretch. But both of them knew that right now Jon wasn't speaking as Ser Jon Whitewolf, he was speaking as Jon Snow, brother to Bran Stark. There was an awkward moment before Bran nodded once,

"I will lead from closer to the rear." he agreed, glancing back over at the map, "I operate better as a commander than a soldier. I've been trying to co-ordinate the defence of The North from here by ravens. I've managed to defend White Harbour and Flints Finger using the ravens to call banners to each area, making them hard targets the Ironborn would ignore."

Jon paid attention as his younger brother seemed to come alive a little at all this strategy. It seemed that Bran wouldn't take after Uncle Brandon at all but after either Uncle Benjen or their father. At least when it came to war and battle,

"Scouts reports have been raven'd here on my request."

He tapped a blue token which had a crude drawing of a kraken on it,

"Victarion Greyjoy camps at Mout Cailin." he declared, scowling a little bit as he tapped a figure of a trident south of Mout Cailin and a Mermaid north of the old fortress, "Forces from the Reeds block their retreat to the south but they lack the manpower to attack. The Manderlys have positioned men to box them in from the north but, again, have not the strength to drive them from the fortification. Mainly because the majority of their forces are to defend their own coast lines - they're the most profitable coasts of The North and would make a tempting target for any fleeing Ironborn from Mout Cailin."

Jon seemed to understand where Bran was going with this,

"But if we have the Maderlys march out we can pursue Theon and his remaining troops in the direction of Mout Cailin. They see kraken banners and think they're protected." he tapped the Manderly token, "But we meet up with the foot of the Manderlys and assault them from the North. o further cut them off we can have the Reeds' forces move from the south at the same time. We catch the last large force of Ironborn in a pincer and wipe them out."

With both Bran and Jon leant over the map, they were both surprised by Sansa's voice,

"But Mout Cailin is a fortress." she pointed out, "It is decaying, to be certain, but it still has many tall towers and most of a curtain wall. Would they not make it harder to fight the Ironborn? Why not lure them out onto the field?"

Surprisingly she had a good point but it was a point that Bran had a counter to regardless of his surprise at Sansa discussing strategy,

"It would be a lot easier." he acknowledged, "But Ironborn don't do open battle as the rest of Westeros do. They're raiders by nature so avoid big confrontation - the only reason they'll stay put in Mout Cailin in because they think they'll be safer there until they can make their way back to the Iron Islands."

That was a point though. If they could somehow meet the Ironborn on the field their own losses would be a lot smaller than if they were forced to assault the fortress. Even a ruined fortress provided many advantages to a defender, especially against a mostly mounted attack force. But their attack force had to be mounted to achieve the pursuit speed that would be required.

Perhaps there was another way for them to force the Ironborn to take the field? For that matter, who hadn't the Ironborn fled to their longboats when it became apparent they were boxed in at Mout Cailin?

Bran answered quickly when asked,

"The Longboats are gone, Jon." he admitted with a smirk, "The Reeds waited until the Ironborn had taken Mout Cailin, unable to stop them, before torching the longboats so they couldn't just flee."

So.

They had the biggest concentration of Ironborn in The North trapped within a fortress. The routed forces of Theon Greyjoy would join them there, adding a few hundred to their numbers as well. Regardless of the fact that the Northern host would outnumber the Ironborn, the defences would go a long way to evening those odds. The Ironborn would also have to stay and fight within the fortress as, without their longboats, they didn't have a hope of escaping the encirclement.

Jon hummed a little bit as an idea came to mind,

"Bran... do we have any longboats salvageable from the first landings?"

Bran looked at him as if he was mad for a moment before comprehension dawned and he just chuckled a little bit as he began writing a scroll to the Manderly's of White Harbour,

"Some from a diversionary attack on White Harbour. Complete with Kraken banners and everything." he agreed, "We beach them within sight of their scouts but some distance from Mout Cailin, they'll leave the fortress to race for the boats. They'll be out in the open and we can crush them while they're exposed."

The plan made, Jon and Bran clasped hands again with almost identical smiles... that was before Sansa grabbed Jon by the shoulder and dragged him back to the chair,

"The plan is made? Good. Now Jon, you have no reason to leave the chair." she told him sternly, "I believe, from my time spent with maester Luwin, that burning the wound closed would be the best cause of action as it appears to be shallow enough."

Bran, the coward, fled the room before their sister's glare, leaving Jon to her tender mercies. And all he could think was how bad an idea it had been to waive of the actual maester before.


	17. Chapter 17

**AN - Still without a beta, as if probably incredibly obvious now. I've taken to asking random beta readers but so far, no hits and no luck. I would also like to thank you for your continue support and mention, here and now, that Jon does not hate his sister. He is being harsh to be safe.**

Ever Onwards

Marshalling the forces had taken some time - a good week, during which Jon and his men had had chance to rest up and heal a little. His archers had moved out back to their keep and the Foot was staying within Winterfell to add some extra layer of protection. So he was riding forth at the head of almost a thousand mounted Northmen with a cluster of his Order around him. There was only around fifty of his mounted forces left any more - mostly knightly, a few older squires who would certainly be knighted by the close of the next battle.

Bran was riding as part of his own host, no doubt listening to the captain of the scouts, whose men were tracking the movements of Theon's remaining Ironborn. If things were going according to plan the riders were harassing the remaining raiders but didn't stick around long enough to cause much damage - their entire purpose was to drive the small number of Ironborn towards their trap, not kill them all.

Not yet.

He would have them all killed if he had his way. Although he knew Theon had more value as a hostage so he would refrain from killing the other man... even if he was planning on dealing out as much pain as possible before handing the young man back over to his father on those gull-stained rocks they tried to call a kingdom. He supposed his anger and need for vengeance would just have to be sated with the deaths of as many Ironborn as possible.

Perhaps he may even be allowed to kill Victarion Greyjoy - everyone in the Seven Kingdoms knew that Balon and his brothers detested one another after all. And it was beyond doubt that Victarion had likely killed hundreds of innocent men and women with his own two hands. And that was without mentioning the deeds done by the raiders under his command.

Edric moved his horse up closer to Jon's as the host marched. He spared his squire a nod and a small smile,

"What news from our little band of survivors?" he japed a little bit, meaning the fifty or so mounted men of the Order who yet survived, "Anything I need to know?"

There was a moment of silence that answered the question better than any voice could have done. He sighed a little bit and rubbed at his horse's neck to try and calm himself down slightly. Honestly, he was stealing himself for having Arya dragged up to him, having somehow managed to escape her rooms in Winterfell to march with her brothers.

He was not disappointed.

"Let go of me! I can ride on my own, probably better than you."

Yes, by the Old Gods and the New, that was his little sister's voice. And it seemed that she resented being pulled forwards to meet with him. As she probably should considering just how annoyed he was with her already. He glanced to the other side, spotting Arya, in riding leathers and terribly-ill-fitting armour, coming closer, her horse being led by a very irate-looking Harrion Karstark. As they got closer Arya went quiet and refused to meet his eyes. Harrion let go on Arya's reigns,

"Your sister, commander." he grunted in annoyance, "I suppose I don't need to tell you how much of a pain she is."

Jon nodded and Harrion moved back to the line, as did Edric. This left Jon and Arya alone at the head of the host, their horses a yard or so from the rest of the men. They carried on in silence for a moment before Jon spoke,

"What are you doing here Arya?"

It was a simple question but they both knew that she would likely be rather long-winded in her answer. Doubtlessly in an attempt to have him just agree with her to get her to stop making such a fuss. The approach worked on their father, for some things, but Jon wasn't their father and this wasn't something even he would have forgiven Arya for.

Rather than breaking out a prepared rant as to why she should be able to come anyway, she was silent a little longer. He glanced at her, seeing her looking anywhere but at him. He was beginning to feel bad about his bluntness when he noticed she was taking particular notice of villages and copses in the distance. His little sister wasn't quiet because she was feeling bad about her actions, she was silent because she was trying to gauge how far they'd travelled.

She probably wanted to try and stall until they were right upon Moat Cailin and the Ironborn. With a growl, he grabbed the reigns of her horse and directed it to the side,

"EDRIC." he thundered, making Arya's protest die in her throat and his squire push his horse right alongside them. He never took his eyes off Arya, "You have the command. Keep marching. I shall be having a discussion with my sister."

Spurring his horse away from the host, he brought Arya and her horse along with him. Once separate from the host he dismounted from his horse. A very stern look later and Arya dismounted as well,

"You have no place here Arya." he told her bluntly, forcing himself to ignore the beginnings of tears in her eyes, "We are marching off to war with an unforgiving enemy. They will not hold back in their strikes as Robb and I did in the yard with you. You do not belong here Arya."

The tears were distracting but he couldn't stop now. She had to understand exactly why what she had done was entirely unacceptable. But, being Arya, she felt the need to argue. She didn't let him finish his explanation as she burst into a passionate defence of her position,

"The Ironborn are attacking the entire North... they were at the gates of Winterfell itself! I'm not just going to sit back and let them get away with that!"

A noble sentiment.

He reached out and tapped her armoured chest. She looked like she was proud of the fact that she had armour like a warrior of the North. Without warning he punched the gap between her chest plate and the armour to cover her back. It didn't fit properly so his fit sailed unopposed into the side of her ribs. She yelped in pain and took a few steps back, glaring daggers at him as he stared back at her blankly,

"So your decision was to charge after trained killers in battle with gaps in your armour." he raised an eyebrow slowly, "No weapon and absolutely zero training at fighting from horseback. Aye, you got some sword play lessons in the yard with us with blunted swords and padded armour - nothing at all like what you were stupid enough to try and charge right on into."

She glared back at him even though she was still holding her side. Seemed he had hit her a little harder than he had intended but he couldn't bring himself to be sorry about it yet. She needed to hear this, she needed to know why she was wrong, not just that she was wrong. Otherwise she'd disagree with his judgement and just try and go around it. It was what she did.

"I know how to fight Jon!" she shouted back at him, "Just give me a weapon and better armour then - I'll kill just as many as any of your summer knights!"

He couldn't help himself - he snorted in amusement,

"Summer knights?" he asked with a grim amusement, "Each and every one of those men are full grown, full trained and battle tested. You? You are an unbloodied young woman with more belief in her own skills than common sense. I don't doubt that you'd get kills Arya - I doubt you'd live long enough to return to Winterfell. Now tell me Arya... you couldn't have gotten this far without help. Who helped you?"

Arya bit her bottom lip, a clear sign that she was trying not to tell him the truth about something. She was going to keep on lying to him even now, even when he had caught her red handed in her foolishness. If he were father he would just send the girl go back with an escort but Jon was not burdened by the memories of Aunt Lyanna like their father was. He would give her this conversation now because she needed it, because it was about time that she learned that Wolfblood wasn't enough - she was going to get herself killed with her current level of arrogance.

"I brought her."

No.

No no no no no!

Arya's face brightened at the voice as Jon gritted his teeth. He turned to see Dacey behind him, atop her horse with both sword and mace at her side. She was in her entire set of armour, full-helm on as well as she looked down upon Jon and Arya. He narrowed his eyes slightly at seeing her wearing a full-helm. Every other time he had seen her she had favoured either a bare head or a half-helm,

"Dacey. I specifically remember being told that you were still recovering from your treatment at the hands of Theon Greyjoy." he told her honestly, frowning slightly, "The Maester told me you would be in no position to ride into battle."

The warrior woman opened her helm to reveal her bruised, purple, face,

"And miss the chance to repay the favour? Not a chance." she told him, shutting the helm before nodding to Arya, "Lady Stark wants that same chance. She is here to fight those who made her powerless within her own home and attacked her people."

Jon looked between Dacey and Arya for a moment. He thought about caving and letting them both off but he wasn't about to do that, not when neither of them seemed to realise they were about to throw their lives away,

"No." he told them both bluntly, "Both of you are forbidden to face combat in this battle."

Arya made to argue but Dacey just gripped her sword tightly from where it was sheathed on the horse's flank,

"I am a fully trained Mormont woman and I have experience on my side." she declared, "You are in no position to forbid me from anything Jon Snow."

Always... Always a fucking Snow. It didn't matter to quite a lot of people that he had been knighted, that he had earned his own name. All they cared about was that he was still a bastard. A knighthood didn't legitimise a man and until he was legitimised he was Jon Snow in the eyes of so many. But he never thought that Dacey would think less of him just because his father had never gotten the King to legitimise him. His prestige was steadily increasing due to his handling of the Order but that made some of true-born nature rather nervous. Was Dacey one of them?

No. More likely she was just aware of what a sore point it was with him, especially since he had sent her letters in the past and it had been one topic of discussion between them. He scowled,

"Enough."

He moved closer to Dacey's side and slapped her upper left leg. The warrior woman cried out in pain enough with her armour blocking the worst of the blow. With her distracted he grabbed her by the shoulder and hip and heaved her out of the saddle, sending her crashing to the ground, where she landed with another pained howl on her back. Jon stalked forwards, placing one foot on her chest to pin her to the ground,

"This doesn't have anything to do with your reasons for wanting to fight. This doesn't have anything to do with my position - Which is as acting commander of the host so you fall under my DIRECT COMMAND..." he told her, pushing her down into the mud a little more with his foot, "I'll tell you why you are BOTH forbidden from facing combat in the coming battle. You, Dacey Mormont, are trained. You are experienced. And as I have just proven... currently made worthless on the battlefield due to your injuries. How many of those cuts they gave you have started bleeding again just from riding?"

She avoided his gaze and Jon was glad for her full-helm now. He didn't enjoy tearing the two of them down, he really hated it in fact, but he would not let the two of them march into battle and be slain just because it was easier on him to avoid this confrontation. He got off of Dacey, turning to Arya, who was staring at Dacey's defeated form in abject horror and shock. He grabbed her by the shoulder and she turned her fearful eyes to him,

"And you, sister, have no experience, no full training and no equipment." he listed off, "You'll both note that at no point have I mentioned about you being women. That's not relevant here. I don't care if you have a cock or a cunt... I care that you can kill someone on the battlefield and then make it back home. Neither of you can."

He released his sister, who went to Dacey's side. The two young woman attempted to bring Dacey to her feet again as Jon just looked down at them. He hated that he had to cut them down like this but it was far better than he ruined their revenge or their adventure than some Ironborn cutting it short with his axe. He mounted his horse smoothly as Arya managed to get Dacey to her feet,

"Report to Samwell with the cart for the wounded. Both of you." he commanded them firmly, "You will come with us. You will watch from the back as we fight the Ironborn. And hopefully then you'll understand that I've just saved both of your lives. Jason! Walis! Waldern!"

Three squires broke away from the rear of the host, close to where Sam was riding in the cart with the medical supplies. When the three squires were closer, he nodded to the glaring Arya and weakened Dacey,

"Escort my sister and Lady Mormont to the cart with Samwell. You are to stay with them there and make sure they do no leave the cart." he ordered them, glancing at Arya and Dacey, "If they escape they will find themselves in a battlefield and will likely die. If they escape from the cart I will behead all of you... am I understood?"

The fearful squires hurried to collect both Arya and Dacey and escort them to their new prison. Jon turned his horse and began to make his way back to the head of the host, steadfastly ignoring the screams from Arya about the injustice of it all and how she would be telling their father.

She would live.

And that was what was important.

Re-joining the host, Jon made his way to the head of the column, taking the command of the host back from Edric. His squire didn't fall back in with the rest of the host though. Jon sighed a little bit,

"I don't want to talk about it Ned."

If Edric had heard him he didn't seem to mind that he was essentially dismissed. Instead, his squire just kept pace beside him, silently keeping him company as they raced towards Moat Cailin and the last concentrated force of Ironborn in The North,

"How are the men Ned?" he asked, trying to take his mind off the previous confrontation he had had today, "And this time, don't produce one of my sisters with wild eyes and stupid ideas in her head."

Edric smirked slightly in amusement before waving for a few other riders to come closer. Jon smiled as he recognised Lancel Lannister and Harrion Karstark riding up to lead the host with him and Ned. Gendry had returned to the keep to work on his blacksmithing, having had enough of the bloodying of steel for now, going back to its forging instead. Jon couldn't help but ask,

"She didn't hurt you did she Harrion?"

There was some sniggering from Lancel and Edric but Harrion seemed to take it in good faith, just chuckling along with the little sniggers before declaring,

"I think it's better to watch she doesn't bite you rather than her wolf."

More chuckles from his companions before Jon added,

"She is my sister." he reminded them, cutting the laughter short awkwardly before smirking and adding, "And you're absolutely right. She'd take you off at the knees if you give her cause Harrion."

The chuckles and the laughter came back and Jon couldn't help but think that he was going to miss this kind of atmosphere with his friends. The three he rode with today were all strong, capable, warriors and his fast friends. But he knew well enough that the chances of all of them surviving the coming battle would be slim - just as they had been in every battle before. So rather than let that dampen his spirits, he took heart in the fact that the four of them had lept into battle like this before and come away clean.

Lancel clapped his hands together,

"Alright, I fear we've gotten terribly silent and sombre..." he declared, "Maybe something of a song?"

Harrion jeered and Edric laughed at that suggestion. The idea of some music was a rather good one but the idea of Lancel singing said song was terrible. Everyone in the order knew that Lancel was something of an artist with a blade, like his cousin Jaime but without the stain on his honour or terrible sense of humour. But likewise, everyone in the order knew that he had the singing talents of a cat.

Lancel rolled his eyes,

"Don't worry, I've heard there's a singer in the host." he told them with a little smirk, "And a little drum player! Plays it on his horse's back but the sound carries no worse."

Well that didn't sound like a bad idea. He could use to music to keep the men marching happily and take his own mind off what he had discussed with his sister and Dacey.

"Bring them forward."

The drummer and his singer friend came to the front of the host and began a song that Jon remembered his father singing to him and Robb, a song he had learned during the rebellion.

Jon set his gaze for the horizon, where the peaks of the tallest towers of Moat Cailin were beginning to become visible against the dying light of the sun. There the foe camped and they would dash them against the coast come the dawn. He called a halt to the host near a close by wood. Captains began to get the men all spread out and hidden within the treeline. There was a massive stretch of open land before they entered the swampier grounds surrounding Moat Cailin, open ground the Ironborn would have to cross in order to get to 'their' long ships to the coast, far off to Jon's left. He stared out across what would soon be a battlefield, staring hard at the bands of Ironborn that were making their way closer to the towers.

When evil stalks upon the land, I'll neither hold nor stay my hand. But fight to win a better day, over the hills and far away.


	18. Chapter 18

AN: First beta-read chapter - huge thank you to Shinigami Merchant. The chapter was beta'd very quickly and to a high standard - the delay in update is my computer's fault as the power supply failed. Regardless, huge thank you to my new beta-reader and I hope you enjoy the following.

A Caged Kraken

The Ironborn, Jon learned as he was awoken briskly at dawn, had tried to escape Moat Cailin before first light, wanting to sneak to 'their' longboats before anyone was the wiser. They knew of the men from White Harbour waiting just North of the Neck and they knew about the Crannogmen to their South. The force of Ironborn may have been able to defeat either force in open battle but it seemed they didn't want to risk it.

Instead, he learned as he was quickly strapped into his armour, they had attempted to sneak out. The fact was, however, that they had underestimated the Crannogmen. The short men and women of the swamps of the Neck had attacked them in the dead of night with poisoned arrows and spears, ambushing them and grinding the march of the Ironborn to a halt.

So much so that by the time dawn came, the Ironborn were still only half way to the shoreline, despite the urging of their commanders no doubt. Jon swung himself up onto his horse with a little aid from Edric... the damn armour made it so hard to mount without aid. Downhill from the Winterfell host, the Ironborn were spread out in a long line, clearly expecting nothing more than a march and, potentially, protecting themselves from ambushes set up by the Crannogmen.

The concealment of the mounted host of Winterfell had worked beautifully it seemed because the Ironborn looked to be in no way prepared to defend themselves against a cavalry charge. More fool them for expecting The North to just let them walk away after the death they had brought to their lands. Now mounted up, Jon was given a lance even as a bastard sword and a short sword were strapped to the side of his horse. He turned to see that the host under his command was ready to go. He had spoken to Bran about a tactic to use today and the lords had all agreed that it would be the best option.

His own part of the host wasn't enough to actually wipe out the massed Ironborn on their own but this wasn't a rout they were looking for, they were looking to either slaughter them all or capture them. Knowing how the Ironborn often refused to entertain the idea of surrender, slaughter would be on everyone's mind. The only people who would be captured were the 'lords'; Victarion Greyjoy and Theon Greyjoy. And as it stood, Victarion was already a spare who was deemed 'too volatile' to be used as a hostage.

Jon raised his lance and the captains of his host barked orders to their men. He nodded to one of the younger squires, who took up a large ram's horn and blew a long, clear, note. The note seemed to vibrate in the air and it had doubtlessly made it to the Ironborn because the entire marching force seemed to stop for a moment. Jon urged his horse out from the trees. He was sure to the Ironborn he looked to be a lone knight. But the horn blast was the cue - almost as one his entire half of the host stepped their horses forward from the treeline, until each and every member was free of the trees.

It might ruin the element of surprise but it was worth it considering it meant that the charge would be a solid one, with every man a part of it. If they had rushed from the thick trees he was certain that they would have lost dozens of men to tree branches and trampling alone. Besides, this was something that worked in the same vein as his tactic. For it to work the Ironborn had to know that they were coming for them, in order for them to run in the right direction. Free from the trees, another blast of the horn was the signal to move, forming up on Jon himself at the head of the charge.

Pulling his horse to the right, keeping the Ironborn on his left, Jon started at a strong but sustainable gallop. His men began to form up the 'spear-tip' as he had instructed them, himself and his knights riding at the very tip of the formation. The wedge of Northern horseman was veering far to the right however, away from the coast and away from the Ironborn host. It was only when they were halfway down the hill that a third horn blast echoed and the entire wedge... turned.

Jon was now at the head of a galloping wedge of Northern Cavalry, who were now barrelling straight for what was the rear of the marching Ironborn. The Ironborn at the rear immediately turned to face them but the majority of their fellows were using their rear guard as a distraction to make it to the coasts, where even Jon could see the approaching Longboats that were making their way to shore. Jon didn't much care, his whole purpose in their wedge was to force as many of the Ironborn to rush to 'their' boats as possible. And the rear guard? They would doubtlessly not last long.

The rear guard was a couple hundred strong, with a few spears here and there but mainly with axes, swords and shields. Jon could see the distance between himself and the rear guard shrinking so he let out a loud roar. There was little point in using words when only those immediately nearby would understand anything other than the fact that he had shouted at all. It was the signal to couch their lances. He couched his own lance and his knights did the same, making every rider on the front edges of the wedge couch their own. The wedge of Northern Cavalry now barrelling down on the Ironborn rear guard bristling with lances, all of which were eager to be bathed in the blood of the Krakens.

The distance between the two forces was just disappearing as far as Jon was concerned. The yards were just being eaten up by the speed of their charge and before he knew it, he was almost upon them. His lance aimed at the upper chest of a man in the very centre of the rear guard,

"For Winterfell!"

He didn't have time to check if his cry had been taken up by the rest of his men, his lance juddered against him as it embedded itself in the throat of the man he had aimed at. But with the momentum of his horse, his lance punched straight through the first man and into a second, even as it splintered and cracked. Jon and his horse continued onwards, unfortunate men being trampled beneath the horse's hooves as his charge carried him clean on through to the other side of the rear guard.

His lance discarded, Jon drew his bastard sword from the side of his horse, immediately swinging it down to cut an Ironborn's attack short, opening up a crimson line across the entire length of his torso, from shoulder to hip. The man fell away from him screaming as Jon galloped away from the centre of the charge with his sword raised high, ready to strike again if needs be. The rest of his host came crashing through the rear guard, killing men on the ends of lances and through sheer numbers and weight, trampling more than were killed by the lances themselves.

Jon didn't have to bloody his blade again, the sheer weight of his forces destroyed the rear guard of the Ironborn without too much trouble and without survivors. He raised his sword high again,

"Rally! Rally to me!"

The cry went up for his host to rally upon him even as the remaining Ironborn began to either clump together or race harder towards the Longboats... which they stopped as soon as all five longboats caught alight at once, the pitch they had been coated in being ignited as the skeleton crews bailed out in row boats, remaining at sea to avoid the retribution of angry Ironborn. His host formed up in a block, no longer holding the wedge shape of the initial charge.

Even from here, Jon could see the majority of the Ironborn, probably something close to 700 men, were forming a massive square, with what spears they had at the front on all sides. A tall man in full plate armour could be seen commanding them - Victarion Greyjoy. Stragglers were making their way to the square but Jon gave leave for some of his men to ride them down before they could reach the formation, depriving Victarion of men to defend his lines against another cavalry charge. He pulled the riders back when the Ironborn began loosing arrows, drawing the host back beyond the range of their foe's bows.

Charging the square formation, particularly when they had the majority of their spears pointed in the direction of Jon's host, was going to be a costly move. The force of the charge and the length of their remaining lances would mean they would be able to get a few strafing runs in against the square with only the arrows to worry about for now. But once the lances were all broken, sword and sheer force would be the only thing to force their cavalry through into the infantry of the Ironborn.

Jon sat atop his mount, shifting slightly in the saddle as he gave Lancel leave to lead the strafing runs with the remaining lances. A hundred or so mounted men broke off from his main host, all with lances, and charged the square. Under Lancel's direction they all turned, close to the last second. The effect was that they were within range of the lance but not within range of the Ironborn's spears. Dozens of Ironborn fell in their ranks but more than a few of the Northmen were felled either by arrows, thrown spears or by accidentally getting too close before they turned their mount.

Again and again Lancel lead the strafing runs, each time losing more lances and ordering those without to attempt to cut the tips of the spears off with sword and axe as they passed again. Some of the spears of the Ironborn were cut down but dozens of riders were the cost of such a small victory. Lancel seemed to think so too because he called off the strafing runs immediately, pulling back to the main body of Jon's host. Jon paused for a moment atop his mount, turning to share a glance with Harrion, Edric and the returned Lancel,

"Should I bring them terms?"

The objective was either the destruction of the Ironborn force or the surrender of said force. He, and many others, wanted blood but Bran was the Stark in Winterfell and he had demanded that the Ironborn be given a chance to surrender, even if it was unlikely that they actually would be surrendering. Harrion spat on the ground but didn't say a word - he didn't need to, it was his opinion on leaving the Ironborn to live. Edric sighed a little bit, rubbing the fine facial hair for a moment, his helm hanging to the side of the mount since the charge,

"The order of your brother was to offer them terms." he decided eventually, although he too looked rather disgruntled by the idea of offering terms to such men, "The Stark of Winterfell commands us to offer terms - and for those of us who lust for their blood, we know that the Ironborn will spit on our terms. Nothing to lose."

Jon considered his words carefully. He hoped that he was right to be honest, he wanted to kill more of the scum who had threatened his lands and his family. And he couldn't very well slay Theon when he was a hostage of The North now could he? He turned to Lancel, who had taken a cut to his cheek, which was bleeding freely. It was a testament to how much the Lannister had matured during his time with them that he simply ignored the wound, whereas before he would have whimpered and had it seen to immediately,

"Give them terms." the Lannister youth advised with a small smile, "My Uncle gives men terms that many would deem unacceptable and yet people agree to them. Why? Because they know what he will do to them and theirs if they do not agree. They have seen your fury, Ser Jon. They have seen you cut down their allies' right in front of them and they have seen you have cut off their escape. Their choices are either to accept or to die. You'd be surprised what men will accept when faced with death as the alternative."

The young Lannister knight spoke true - the Ironborn had to know of him by now, if only because of the escape of Theon Greyjoy from the battle of Winterfell. Their situation was dire and they knew it. They were in a square formation, a tough nut for the cavalry to crack but all it would take would be for the cavalry to dismount and fight shield wall to shield wall. It would be a long and bloody battle but sheer numbers, as well as training and arms, were on the side of the Northmen, not the Ironborn. If they ran they'd be cut down by the cavalry if they went North, East or West. If they tried for the South they would end up in the swamps of the Neck.

And Jon knew the Ironborn wouldn't last a week with the Crannogmen and the swamps themselves bleeding them dry. And he wagered that the Ironborn knew that too - Theon certainly knew that so he would likely tell his uncle. Unknown to the Ironborn as of yet was that there was another host of Stark cavalry ready to descend upon them from the North at the sound of Jon's horn. So even if the talks broke down and he had to fight, Jon knew there wouldn't be an Ironborn left alive by the end of the day. He nodded once to his friends before turning to the young squire with the horn,

"Call for the second host to prepare for a charge but hold."

He had thought Bran was rather odd for thinking that would be needed. But as the horn blasted three times in quick succession, Bran's own host exposed themselves, stepping just enough out of the treeline to be able to charge unimpeded. They held their position however atop the hill, doing their job of looking menacing as Jon called for a truce banner to be brought to him. Edric snatched up said banner before he could and trotted away from the host towards the Ironborn.

It was traditional for the squire to raise the flag for a truce and parley. Tradition because many times the man waving the banner was the one who got shot full of arrows.

This time however, no arrows came from the Ironborn. Instead, the full-plate wearing Ironborn and one other broke free from the square to meet in the middle ground. Jon trotted forwards at the same time, stopping next to Edric, who had stabbed the banner into the ground from where he was seated upon his own horse. Neither Victarion nor Theon, for it was obvious who the young man was now they were closer, had a mount but Jon wasn't about to dismount and lose a clear advantage over the Ironborn.

Jon removed his helm once the small group was assembled, attaching it to the side of his horse. There was a pause before Victarion, the only Ironborn with a full helm, removed his own as well. The man looked like every horror story about the Ironborn - he was scarred, rough-looking and, strangely, rather pale. He was an older man but he seemed to be almost as a warrior in his prime still - Jon made note not to underestimate him.

The silence continued for a few moments, until Jon broke it,

"Victarion Greyjoy... your reputation precedes you. Some here call you the Iron Kraken."

The older man grunted,

"A stupid name." his voice was rough as his face it seemed, "They call you many things. Most recent... The Bloody Wolf."

Well, it was better than the Wolf Knight in striking fear into the hearts of his enemies. Jon smiled thinly, making sure to glance at the glaring Theon as he did so,

"I imagine that's a name that someone else gave me - not you."

Victarion snorted. It could either have been from amusement or derision, Jon neither knew nor cared. The way that Theon's face purpled at the indirect reminder of his loss was enough to amuse Jon. But he wasn't here for amusement,

"I'm here to deliver terms to you, Victarion Greyjoy."

Theon looked like he was about to protest but Victarion silenced his nephew with a dark look. Although Jon had to wonder if the man had any looks that weren't dark,

"I'm listening, Bloody Wolf."

It seemed that his new title, probably more the reasons for it, had won him some respect from Victarion. He wasn't sure how he felt about gaining respect from such a despicable man. Rather than dwell on his feeling about the issue, he pressed on,

"All Ironborn will leave The North, leaving behind any 'plunder' of any kind: materials, gold, silver or people. Your group will do so under escort and you shall personally pen a letter that will be delivered to the Ironborn hold outs within our lands." he declared, meeting the older man's eye and not wavering in the slightest, "You shall have a week to do so. After the week is up, I shall personally hunt down the remaining Ironborn within The North and separate their heads from their bodies. And I promise you one thing… when the Kingdoms return from their war with the Sisters, whomever is king will not rest until the Iron Islands are once again brought to heel."

He paused to just stare into the older man's eyes for a long few moments,

"And I promise you, I will visit your home. And it will burn."

Theon seemed to hate the very idea that he was putting forward – likely he was considering it would be the final proof that the Iron Islands were the weakest of the Seven Kingdoms, able to be defeated by a fraction of the might of the North. But Victarion proved he wasn't as stupid as his nephew because he seemed to be considering the proposal. He grunted,

"Sounds better than all my men dying here." He admitted bluntly, "But I won't agree to such a cowardly action for myself. Tell you what… son of Stark… how about we settle this as two men before their gods?"

Jon raised an eyebrow,

"Single combat?"

The Ironborn commander just gestured between the two of them,

"The two of us… a battle of champions, as our forefathers fought, Son of Stark."

Jon vaguely remembered how the last battle of champions between a Stark of Winterfell and a Greyjoy of Pyke had gone. Rodrik Stark had challenged the son of Loron Greyjoy to a wrestling match for the control of Bear Island and Cape Kraken. Both men had beaten each other black and blue but in the end, Rodrik Stark had emerged victorious, having crippled the Greyjoy king, even at the cost of his own health. It was an old tale but Jon knew enough to know that it would be enough for both Northmen and Ironborn to accept,

"And if I win this battle of champions?"

Victarion shrugged,

"Then I shall submit to being your hostage and write your letters. But if I win? The Ironborn here are all free to go – to whatever ends they please. Your forces will give them a week's head start before chasing after them."

Seemed the Iron Kraken wasn't stupid enough to ask that they leave his men alone or to give to them Moat Cailin. Neither of those options would have ever been accepted. As if was, he wasn't the one who needed to do the accepting. He nodded once,

"I shall bring the terms to the Stark of Winterfell." He told him honestly, "If it is accepted, I shall ride out half way without armour and we shall fight. If it is not… you and yours will all die here today."

A rider was sent to collect Bran and an escort for him. The decision was Bran's to make, regardless of Jon's seniority in age and experience in battle. At the end of the day, he was the Stark in Winterfell so he was to be obeyed. If Bran said Jon was to wrestle Victarion, as their ancestors had done, then he would do so. If Bran spat on the offer and told him to break parlay and cut off Victarion's head here and now?

Well that was a tougher one. He wouldn't want to do it... but he knew that he would do it without hesitation. Remorse and regret, certainly. But not an instant of hesitation would be shown.

Thankfully he knew that Bran held honour in too high a regard to consider breaking a truce like this with bloodshed. Something of their shared father in the younger man - admirable in its way. Jon just hoped that Bran wasn't as honourable as their father. His father was too honourable sometimes and he didn't want Bran to suffer from the same weakness.

Because no matter how much he idolised his father when he was younger, he realised that that much honour was a weakness. That honour was what would stop a man chasing down the last remnants of his opponent's host in victory - allowing his enemy time and men to regroup and prove to be a threat again at a later date. But all of that was a point for another day.

Right now all that he had to concern himself with was Victarion and Theon Greyjoy... and the few hundred Ironborn raiders at their backs. The Starks might be renowned for their honour but nothing similar could be said for the Greyjoys. He wouldn't put it past Theon to just pull a knife on him right here and now, truce be damned. But, he supposed, Theon knew that he wouldn't likely be able to fight off both Jon and Edric and live. If his uncle joined in he had a chance but considering truce-breakers were hated in all kingdoms, he wouldn't be surprised if the only reason Theon hadn't attacked was that he knew his uncle wouldn't make a move in his defence.

Either way, the silence between the four men was tense and thick.

None of them wanted to be the first to break the silence or to shift their weight to be more comfortable. It was almost like that would be admitting that they were uncomfortable - that their enemy made them feel uncomfortable. It was childish and Jon realised that... but he would be damned if he 'looked weak' in front of Theon Fucking Greyjoy. Although he was looking forward to Theon doing something stupid and breaking Truce... he would savour the look on the arrogant man's face when he was trying to stuff his guts back inside after Jon had opened him up.

It might not bode well for this Truce that Jon was mentally disembowelling one of his counterparts. But it was Theon Greyjoy so he doubted that many people in The North would blame him if he tore the young man apart with his bare hands - he had lived with them and then used the knowledge from his comfortable life with them to hurt The North itself.

Disgusting honestly.

Thankfully they didn't need to spend much more time in Truce. Bran was riding over with a few of the lords of smaller lands surrounding Winterfell. Only two caught his eye as memorable - Lord Gregor Forrester and his heir Rodrik Forrester. Both looked to be serious-types but Rodrik did appear more severe than his father. Bran and his escort dismounted. Jon clasped his brother's hand in greeting, bowing his head to the younger man,

"Lord Stark... brother..." he greeted Bran, "Lords Victarion and Theon Greyjoy have offered interesting terms. They suggest, rather than bloodshed, the matter is resolved with a contest between myself and Lord Victarion. Specifically... a wrestling match."

Bran's eyes lightened with the recognition of the historical precedent. Thankfully it seemed that the maester had managed to teach Bran some of the Northern histories before the boy had, doubtlessly, escaped to go and do something more interesting. Looking the true image of a young lord, Bran considered the option for a moment, turning to his entourage for a moment,

"I would hear the opinions of my bannermen."

Good, it seemed that Bran was taking this seriously and wanted to make sure that his bannermen agreed with what he decided. If he included them then they believed they had an opinion in this, even though the final decision was Bran's alone to make. Some of the bannermen he hadn't been able to name was nattering on about what to do but the Forresters were oddly silent. Bran seemed to notice this as well,

"Lord Forrester." the man bowed his head to Bran both in deference and acknowledgement, "You have not spoken. Do you not have an opinion on this matter?"

The older lord scratched at his chin for a moment before deciding to answer,

"My son, Rodrik... would council me to fight. To wipe out the Ironborn threat with our superior strength." he admitted. Jon noticed that Theon and Victarion both seemed to prepare themselves for combat but Gregor continued, "But he still has much to learn. I would see the option that has the least number of my men die here today - I would see this settled as a contest of champions."

The opinion was taken up by the nameless bannermen that Jon didn't recognise. Judging by Bran's carefully worded speech... he didn't know half their names either. Forgivable for Jon but not quite so for Bran. He would make a note to have the maester of Winterfell refocus his efforts on the local bannermen, their houses and their histories. Jon might not NEED to know these houses but Bran did. He might only be second in line for the Lordship of Winterfell but that still came with responsibilities.

Their father knew the dangers of letting a second son go uneducated about ruling.

Bran took a moment to deliberate before nodding a little bit to himself,

"Alright." he agreed quietly before speaking louder, "I give this idea my blessing. Champions have been selected already? Then the challenge shall begin as soon as both men are ready. Armour and arms will be removed. Leggings only."

It made sense, it robbed both Jon and Victarion of any unfair advantages they might have and makes sure everyone could see that they had no hidden weaponry they were going to pull out. Edric began helping Jon out of his armour as Theon did the same, albeit reluctantly, for his uncle,

"The rules are the same as they have always been." Bran spoke confidently. Apparently this was a section of history he rather enjoyed, "No armour, no weapons, and no using stones from the ground. The victor is the one who knocks his opponent out. Or the only surviving participant."

Savage rules for what amounted to two men beating each other until one of them didn't get up again. It wasn't even really wrestling - not in the sense that it was grappling and the like. It was more of an unarmed brawl than it was wrestling - less holds and more beating the other man until he couldn't stand back up. Jon had to admit that he was thinking that would be something in his favour - he still had a deep, simmering, rage against the Ironborn and this would be a chance to be as brutal as the rage wanted him to be.

Although he doubted that Victarion would go down without a fight.

"Both parties shall now make the oath, before all Gods, to uphold the wager."

Jon and Victarion took a few steps forwards before reaching out and clasping their right hands. Neither of them broke eye contact,

"I do so swear."

Both men echoed the sentiment before breaking the other's gaze and returning for the rest of their armour and forbidden clothing to be removed.

Now completely without armour, and a shirt, Jon's shoulder wound was glaringly obvious. It wasn't a serious wound, barely more than a surface wound, but it was still rather red and it showed that it was a recently healed wound. He had no doubt that Victarion would go straight for the wound - it's what he would do, as well as what any sensible man would do. The rest of him though? Well, he was sure he could take more than a few hits from Victarion and dish it out just as well as he took it.

In contrast, Victarion looked like he didn't have anything Jon could exploit. The man was solidly built, bigger than Jon by at least a head. His stomach was still youthfully flat and he had dozens of scars to prove he had faced death many times and won. Honestly, Jon was beginning to regret not asking for a more regular battle of champions - he was confident his skill with arms might be greater than the Greyjoy's. But he was beginning to wonder if his skill without arms was enough to win him the day.

Self-doubt before a clash wasn't a sign of cowardice, he had decided long ago, but the sign that your mind was still working. It was analysing everything in the most pessimistic light possible - and if you could overcome each of your own mind's pessimistic predictions then you would soon find yourself victorious. Or maybe that was just a pep talk he gave himself before he threw himself into combat? He didn't know. He didn't much care right now though - thankfully, the tunnel-vision was sinking in. All that he could see or think of was Bran and Victarion.

As soon as he saw, rather than heard, Bran give the signal, his vision snapped down to just Victarion.

Both men let out huge warcries as they lunged at each other, both determined to get the initiative first. Jon ducked under the swipe of Victarion's fist, ramming his shoulder into the older man's gut, winding him. Jon had hoped to be able to use the momentum to toss the older man to the floor but Victarion managed to square his feet well enough to stop the momentum dead. Before Jon could regain the initiative, Victarion hammered down on his exposed back with both hands in an axe-fist. Jon swore as he fell to the ground, rolling away to avoid being stomped on, quickly getting to his feet again when clear of the Ironborn.

They circled each other for a moment longer before Victarion decided to charge in first this time. He came in with a strong right hook, which Jon avoided by jumping to the side slightly. Seeing that his opponent was over extended, Jon decided he needed to try making a weakness in his opponent. Jon roared as he gave the side of Victarion's left knee a kick with all his strength. Victarion swore as the leg buckled from the force, falling into a crouch. Jon' victory was short-lived however as Victarion turned the crouch into a way to spring himself forwards at Jon.

The two men grappled clumsily as Jon fell over with the added weight of Victarion on his chest. Rather than Jon just falling backwards, leaving Victarion on top of him, Jon threw himself into the descent so they rolled instead. The roll ended with Jon on top. Without a moment's hesitation he reared back and broke Victarion's nose with a strong punch. The Ironborn swore and rocked enough that the two of them began to roll again, this time moving his grip from Jon's arm to his wounded shoulder.

Jon screamed in pain and rage as he felt Victarion's thumb break open his wound and dig into the sensitive flesh.

The roll ended with Jon on top again but with Victarion's thumb in his wound it almost didn't matter... but it did mean all he had to do was lean down slightly. With a growl, he bit into the fleshiest part of Victarion's hand. Victarion howled in pain but Jon ignored it, pushing his teeth further down until... until they met in the middle, having bitten clean through a part of Victarion's hand. With a savage yank of his head, Jon fell off of his opponent, surprised, as the resistance suddenly stopped.

He had come away with a chunk of Victarion's hand in his mouth. Spitting it out, he was rather pleased to see Victarion cradling his hand on his knees, cursing Jon with every breath he could take. Capitalising, and knowing the battle wasn't over yet, Jon decided he had caused enough pain for the older Ironborn to satisfy himself right now. Now though - he wanted to cause more humiliation to the Ironborn. He moved behind the kneeling Ironborn, avoiding swipes with those massive hands to kneel behind his opponent, hooking both of his arms to pull his arms back behind his back. Victarion roared in both anger and pain as Jon tightened his hold,

"Yield! Yield you Ironborn scum!" he shouted in Victarion's ear, loud enough for both sides to hear, spitting some of Victarion's own blood back at the side of his face, now hissing venomously to Victarion only, "Do it Victarion... yield... yield in front of all your men. Because I've beaten you, Greyjoy! And because if you don't... this field will run red with Ironborn blood."

Victarion continued to struggle, getting some good shots to Jon's ribs with his elbow until Jon adjusted his grip. The older man groaned in pain but didn't seem to be any closer to relenting,

"Fucking liar..." he growled, "You're a Stark... honour instead... of balls! You kill me here, you'll still send my boys home..."

Jon scowled as he cranked up the pressure. He was only just now becoming aware of the cheering from one side of the field and the jeers from the other side. He couldn't tell which side was which right now - would the Northmen really turn against him for biting Victarion, especially when this fight was explicitly stated to have no rules against it? Some, maybe. Some were too honourable to realise that the absence of rules meant just that - there were no rules to break. He gritted his teeth as he continued to hold the struggling Greyjoy,

"I'm a bastard - not a Stark." he ground out, "And my name... is Ser Jon Whitewolf. I am the Wolf Knight. I am the Bloody Wolf. Yield... here, in front of all these assembled men... or I will put your men to the slaughter and put their heads on spikes along the entire length of the western shores of The North."

Victarion struggled more violently at this threat and didn't seem to want to stop. Jon growled in anger and kicked the older man in the back. While he was stunned Jon changed his hold, now holding an arm around Victarion's neck, the other holding his head tightly,

"Wrong answer you fucking squid."

Despite Victarion's vicious struggles, Jon got the hold he was looking for. With a roar of anger he twisted, snapping Victarion's neck with a very audible snapping sound. The jeers began to die down but the cheers continued. Jon stood, shakily, and held up one fist. The cheering continued for a bit longer before it died down. He had the undivided attention of every man who had been assembled by both sides. He stood tall for a moment,

"Here... in the sight of the Old Gods, The Drowned God and The Storm God... I, Ser Jon Whitewolf, have defeated Victarion Greyjoy! The fate of the Ironborn host is mine to decide by the oath sworn before all Gods!" he let his voice ring out for a bit, "Let all men, before their Gods, accept this victory for what it is and abide by the terms of the wager!"

There was silence for the longest time before a roar of guttural approval came from the Northmen. Jon had time to bask in the glory for only a few moments before the Gods decided that they would not be denied their true entertainment – the violent deaths of many young men. In his moment of victory, Jon staggered back at the feeling of something punching him in the middle of his chest. But he was alone… but looking down revealed the truth.

Honestly, Theon's reaction to his uncle's defeat should have been expected.

The man wasn't the bravest, wasn't the smartest and wasn't the most likable. He would never be one of the legends of the Kingdoms for the 'right' reasons. But Jon had no doubt that Theon Greyjoy would be infamous in the Seven Kingdoms, if not the world, when all of his life was chronicled. Now all the man needed was a name that suited him.

Theon the Treacherous?

Theon the Liar?

Theon the Treacherous sounded much better to Jon but he supposed he might have been biased. And there might have been some issues that meant he wasn't thinking as clearly as he should - like the arrow Theon Greyjoy had shot into him in answer to his victory. It had only been a few seconds but the world had seemed to slow down as he was left alone with his thoughts and the single arrow in the centre of his chest.

There was absolute silence for a few, long, seconds before the roar went up from hundreds of throats.

"Traitor! Betrayer! Without honour! Broke the truce!"

Maybe not all from one voice but there were so many of them shouting the same things that they almost sounded like they were just one person shouting a word in unison. He didn't know why but the arrow in his chest didn't seem to actually hurt. That was probably a bad sign to be honest - Most things were when they were related to having an arrow in your chest.

Men were rushing, charging, at each other. The Truce was over, since Theon had violated it, and it seemed the Northmen were aching for blood. Jon was vaguely aware of someone grabbing him from behind, dragging him away from the battle itself, the tide of Northmen moving aside for him as he was half-carried and half-dragged back from the front lines. It was strange... things were beginning to get... blurry.

He had heard in the stories, as every young boy did, that when you were dying your world began to grow dark and cold. But for Jon, all he could see was blurring outlines of people and all he could feel was a shaky heat. It felt, almost, like when he was younger and he had caught a case of the flu. Was he sick? It was pretty sudden for him to be sick but he did seem to have trouble organising his thoughts. If that was from his fight with Victarion, the arrow in his chest or some sudden illness he didn't know.

The rattling of metal led him to believe that he had been delivered to a maester. He couldn't be certain, of course, because everything was just blurs of colour in front of his eyes right now. The rescuer and the maester were speaking but their voices seemed to be getting further away. But the sounds of battle, of slaughter, behind him he could still hear with perfect clarity. His right hand itched to grab his sword, to dive into battle with his men, but his head throbbed at the thought and his chest seemed to be nothing more useful than a lead weight.

Jon looked down to see that the arrow's shaft was now broken. When had that happened? He had been looking up at the blurry form of the maester for only a few seconds and no one had touched the arrow - he was certain he would have felt it. But when he looked up, the maester was gone as well. The arrow was still in his chest but the shaft had been trimmed and... and he could see slightly clear now than he could barely a few seconds ago.

Unfortunately the pain was beginning to hit.

It was a burning that seemed to spread outwards from where the arrow was embedded, red hot fire rushing through his blood until his entire body was alight with pain. His body attempted to buck and writhe but thick restraints on his wrists, ankles and waist kept him pinned down. A hand came from seemingly nowhere to press down on his shoulders, the only part of his body other than his head he had managed to actually move. There was a maester, with some sort of metal tool in his hands and he was being held down by what looked like a servant boy.

He didn't understand what was happening - all he knew was that he was tied down while a man came closer to him with a metal tool of some kind. Jon bucked and writhed against both the pain and the grip of the servant boy, roaring his rage and pain in what, he suspected, were not fully formed words. The servant boy appeared to be terrified but the maester just sighed. The healer lifted something wet off of Jon's forehead and he was surprised to see it was a wet rag... which was replaced by a very cold wet rag a moment later. He blinked a little bit, his head feeling ever so slightly better.

It was just a distraction however as the maester immediately dove to his chest. Bright red pain - all over! Every inch of him was in pain and it didn't seem like it was inclined to stop. His head was feeling heavier and heavier and, despite the pain, he felt his eyes close. It felt like it was only a blink but when he opened his eyes again the bright pain was nothing but a dull ache in his chest. His head still felt like it was full of nails or angry bees but the rest of him felt more or less, for lack of a better term, human. He tried to speak but no sound emerged.

He forced himself to swallow, realising that his throat was beyond dry and his lips almost sealed due to a lack of use. With a concentrated effort, he managed to get some sort of croaking noise out but it was quiet and short lived. Giving up on his chance of speech for now, Jon, with significant effort, managed to move his head enough so that he could look down at himself.

They hadn't bothered to dress him past a light sheet that covered his legs and his modesty. He was, he noted with mild surprise, naked under the sheet. His chest was, perhaps very understandably, heavily covered in bandages. There was no trace of the arrow itself anymore, just a small circle of blood where he remembered the arrow impacting. So the arrow was gone. It didn't appear to have hit his heart or his lungs... so why did he still feel like death? Everything was aching and he was alternating, pretty quickly, between being freezing cold and being far too warm.

Probably why they hadn't bothered to dress him - if he had been able to talk he didn't doubt that he likely would have screamed at them to clothe him because it was cold... and then five minutes later demand all the clothing removed because it was too hot. His head though, that always felt hot. He could feel something wet on his forehead but it wasn't cold anymore at all. He slumped back down, boneless, as he tired. It was ridiculous, his head had been raised for barely a minute before the strength left him and he had to rest his body again.

He closed his eyes again, the tiredness creeping into his bones as his eyes closed for just a moment. Again, he opened his eyes and it seemed to him as if only a second had passed. But he was no longer as tired and his surroundings were slightly lighter than he remembered them being before. He groaned, surprised that he was able to actually make a sound now. His throat was scratchy, raw and dry but it was nowhere near as bad as it had been before. He blinked a few times when a woman moved to stand by his bedside.

Or what he assumed was his bedside anyway - he still had no idea where he was after all.

The woman was... honestly, a rather young woman. She looked around Bran's age but... maybe a little bit older. So closer to his own age actually. How strange it was that he, a seventeen year old, would find himself a world apart from a woman who couldn't be more than a year younger than himself. Maybe it was because he didn't feel like he was a young man - he felt, increasingly, like a battle-hardened old man. Just so long as he didn't become bitter about it, he supposed that was alright.

What did it say about him that he already saw the naivety and enthusiasm of youth as folly? Probably said he'd spent far too much time being as 'grim' as his father. And spent far too much time putting steel in other men for whatever reason. He groaned slightly as the woman turned to him, having been busying herself with something he couldn't see. She was a pale thing, soft-looking milky skin with bright eyes and dark, curly, hair. She was also, he couldn't help but notice, a rather short young woman. Whether she hadn't reached a growth spurt yet or just naturally small, he didn't know.

She replaced the wet rag on his head and he sighed a little bit in relief. The obvious reaction seemed to surprise her. She stared down at him for a few moments before speaking as she turned to collect something,

"Feeling up to speaking now 'ser'?" she asked him. Did he imagine the teasing tone to his title? He didn't know. And he didn't care overly much anyway, "You haven't even tried to carry a conversation for days now."

Alarms began ringing in his head. He attempted to sit up but a sudden bout of dizziness forced him to lie back down. He groaned and tried to speak. A dry croak. He scrunched up his face and tried again. Another croak. The woman tutted at him, a small wineskin in her hands,

"You might feel up for speaking but trust me, you're not up for speaking yet."

He groaned a little bit. Leave it to a young woman to point out the obvious and treat it like wisdom - had he not just proven that point himself? Didn't take the brains of a Grand Maester to know he wasn't up for speaking AFTER he had just proven that. Instead he just gave her a look before sighing. The wineskin was presented and Jon took a tentative drink.

He couldn't get the liquid out of his mouth fast enough, turning his head and spitting it away as he did so. Coughing, in a vain attempt to remove the taste, he glared at the younger woman, unable to voice his complaint but knowing that it was hard not to understand. She just looked at him and laughed a little bit, shaking her head slightly in her mirth,

"What? Did you think that antidotes were any better tasting than other medicines?" she teased him again before seemingly deciding to answer some of the questions that were burning inside of him, having no way of vocalising them, "I imagine this is the first you've heard of it. Awake, at least. Theon Greyjoy, he shot you with an arrow after you won the wager - I trust you remember that much?"

Jon didn't even attempt to speak this time. He just reached out with a slightly shaky hand to gesture at his chest where the arrow had been. Until he could speak again, Jon resigned himself to having to resort to other methods to make himself understood. The woman nodded a little bit as she added some herbs to the wineskin, corked it and began shaking it,

"Well after the Greyjoy hit you with the arrow, the battle started and the North, obviously, won. I heard a group of the Ironborn captured Greyjoy and handed him over to the Lord Stark to save their lives." she gossiped. Oh sure, she was giving him much needed information, but she was still gossiping, "You though? The arrow that he shot at you was poisoned - apparently some of the Ironborn scouts managed to grab one of my father's men. Seems Greyjoy liked the idea of people dying from his arrows even if he didn't hit a vital point."

That sounded like Theon.

Something that required the least amount of effort but offered the maximum level of payoff. Hit someone with an arrow that wouldn't kill from the area alone? The wound would be poisoned, which would kill them anyway. It made a lot of sense that Theon wouldn't want to just focus on fixing his aim but rather go with an easier option. The fact that he had gotten poisoned arrows meant he had captured a Crannogman. And if those men were the men of this girl's father... his mind worked as he tried to remember the names of houses of the Neck. The only one he could think of was the house of his father's old friend; House Reed, Lords of the Neck.

And this woman was the daughter of Lord Reed? He wasn't said to have any bastards, meaning that his trueborn daughter was tending to his wounds right now. Either he was having some weird kind of dream because of the poison or a pretty highborn girl was spending rather a lot of time taking care of him. He was still a young man so he rather enjoyed the thought but the woman seemed to continue, presenting the wineskin to him again,

"The poison is one we don't often use - only really against people we hate." she admitted, "Ironborn count. But it's a nasty one... it causes a fever that burns through you slow - it's meant to cause you to dry out and then die because you've got no water left in you. Only a mixture we know about will save your life so... you might want to just drink up."

Jon glared at her without heat for a few moments longer before sighing and giving in, taking the second drink from the wineskin. The urge to spit it out immediately was still present but he managed to hold it in long enough to swallow the foul mixture. The woman seemed rather pleased with herself about that to be honest but he ignored that for a few moments. Instead he focused on trying not to throw up. He turned to her and his vision blurred again. Jon's eyes widened as his head felt even more sluggish than it had before. She wouldn't... would she?

The young woman smiled a rather weak smile down at him as she moved his increasingly unresponsive body into a comfortable sleeping position,

"I gave you something to help you sleep." she explained, "If I didn't you likely wouldn't sleep at all and sleep is needed for the recovery."

His vision swam and his eyes closed again. And just like what seemed like every time, Jon opened his eyes again after what felt like a second, to find that much more time had passed. The young woman was here again but he was feeling quite a lot better. He growled at her, the sound rather rough but unmistakable,

"You... drugged me." he managed to speak, his throat feeling much underused but not painful in any way anymore. He narrowed his eyes at her, "I don't appreciate that."

The young woman just smiled a little bit,

"But you slept for two days with the tonic working to repair your throat and hydrate you." she argued with what appeared to be a rather smug little smile, "So you owe your life... to a little crannog girl who drugged you. How does that feel 'ser'?"

She was teasing him, he could tell, but it was rather amusing that someone of 'such renown' was being saved by someone like her. He just smiled a little bit, not really wanting to try laughing until his throat was a little bit better. He groaned as he sat up straight on the bed,

"Depends... do I have to take more of that disgusting potion?" The woman just smiled back and shook her head. He sighed, relieved, "Thank the gods for small mercies. No offence but I believe I've had enough of this bed."

With great care, Jon stood up from the bed, the sheet falling away as he did so. He was a little unsteady on his feet but he supposed that was to be expected. He had been off his feet with this illness for a few weeks at least. Couldn't be more than that though he decided because he could still feel the strength in his muscles - Samwell had told them all the dangers of losing their strength during long periods of illness or injury. He wasn't fighting fit right now but nothing that some sparring and food wouldn't fix. His head was calmer now and he could speak - no need to be bed-ridden anymore so far as he could see.

Jon turned to the young woman to see that she was frozen to the spot. He blinked a few times, noting that her cheeks were redder than when he had first spotted them,

"Are you alright?"

She hummed a little bit and nodded, a tad shakily. Her gaze was lower than he expected it to be. He followed her gaze and covered himself rather belatedly. His own cheeks flushed as he realised he'd just walked off of sickbed, naked as the day he was born... in front of the only daughter of a Lord renown for using nasty poisons. And there were Lion Lizards in Lord Reed's territory - he'd heard that battles in the Neck often didn't leave many wounded because the lion-lizards could get a man alive in minutes.

That was not something he was in a hurry to experience. He coughed awkwardly as he fetched the sheet to cover himself,

"I er... I apologise my lady." he told her with a bowed head, "I did not mean to offend you."

The young woman, still slightly red in the face, just laughed a little bit,

"Oh I wouldn't say it was offensive." she toyed with him before gesturing to a chest by the wall, "If you had let me however, I'd have told you that your clothing is within that chest. Would you like me to let your squire in?"

She had an amused little smirk on his face that, scarily, reminded him of Ayra. If Ayra grew up to have this much fun teasing young men then he'd have to wrap her up in plate armour to avoid her losing her innocence. And, knowing Ayra, she'd probably disagree with his methods and attempt to escape and do just what he had warned her against doing. He groaned a little bit,

"Yes please, my lady."

The young Reed woman chuckled to herself and left the room. Only a few seconds later, Edric came thundering into the room. He was dressed in basic leathers but he was a big enough man to still thunder when he rushed forwards and pulled Jon into a tight embrace. Jon himself just grinned as he hugged his friend tightly before they both released and got a look at each other.

Edric's hair, which had been growing to his shoulders, was no cut incredibly close to his skull now. The reason, which was immediately apparent, was the large, raw, scar that ran along the entire length of his skull, starting an inch of so above his left eye and curving with his skull, stopping just short of the crown of his head. The hair had likely gotten in the way so it'd been removed. Other than the very noticeable scar, Edric had noticeably broken his nose recently, the two black eyes still very visible.

As he had been checking Edric over the other man appeared to have been doing the same to him. They both looked up at each other at the same time,

"You look like hammered shit." they both said, borrowing a turn of phrase that Gendry had brought to the group from his time as a smith in King's Landing. Jon managed a chuckle, while Edric just smiled. It appeared that the battle had happened regardless of his wrestling match with Victarion - so that part hadn't been part of a fever dream or something similar. He stepped back and Edric moved to collect some clothing from the chest. Jon blinked when he spotted a very distinctive helm in the chest,

"Victarion Greyjoy's armour?"

Edric chuckled a little bit as he fetched some simple leathers for Jon to put on,

"You paid 'the iron price'!" he joked as he locked the chest down again as Jon started to dress, "The remaining Ironborn would have insisted you take it."

Jon hummed a little bit,

"And how many Ironborn remain?"

There was a small pause as Edric seemed to try and work out, in his head, how many of their enemy had either escaped or been captured. But maths had never been a strong suit of Edric so he just grunted and shrugged,

"More than a dozen but less than a hundred."

Huh. He had honestly expected every last Ironborn to be dead. But, he supposed, Bran had probably taken control of the battle and gotten the men to take some prisoners, for ransoming back some of our people from the Western shores if nothing else. After all, the Ironborn took whatever they wanted in those longships of theirs. If they had some Ironborn warriors to trade, the Ironborn would trade back the salt wives and others they had taken, simply because they believed that they'd then be able to use said warriors to come back and take more later... such a greedy people, the Iron Islanders.

Jon wasn't sure what he would do with them if given the chance. The advice of Lancel was still fresh in his mind. Speaking of which...

"And our casualties?"

Edric shrugged a little bit,

"A Mallister cousin." he admitted, "That was the only man with a family name. We lost many of our trained small folk though. Many squires."

Jon winced. Another battle and another huge hit to their manpower. His order hadn't been ready for war, he realised now. They were more than ready to repel raiders and exterminate bandits. They had even been ready for the lifting of sieges - as they had proven! But they were not ready for war. War was a different beast, it was something that ground down the men caught up in it and his order had never been the biggest to begin with. As he laced his britches, Jon could only hope that the war was over, all the while doubting it as soon as he thought it.

Presentable now, Jon and Edric left his room, Jon walking slower than usual but otherwise fine for now. He was still tired but he needed to speak to Bran, something that Edric seemed to understand without words as he was leading Jon to one of the main rooms of the Children's Tower. He was surprised to find that they were currently camped in Moat Cailin but he supposed it made a certain kind of sense - there were likely too many wounded and prisoners to move to White Harbour and to get to Greywater Watch without Crannogmen guides was suicide.

That and this whole mess had started from the attempt to take the old fortress - he supposed Bran might just want to be here because it had been the objective of the campaign. To leave it now spoke of a weakness and ease of change to priorities.

Edric knocked on the door to what was being used as Lord Stark's solar and Jon was admitted. Immediately he noticed that Lancel Lannister and Harrion Karstark stood amongst the guardsmen for the young Stark. He was rather pleased to see that his men were following his wishes to protect the Stark family even when he wasn't awake to ask them. He had only a moment before Bran was pulling him into a hug. Jon just held his little brother tightly as the two of them both enjoyed the fact that their brother wasn't dead.

Breaking the embrace, Jon held his brother at arm's length to properly examine him for any injuries. He found none but there was a massive smile,

"Such happiness for little old me?"

Bran just grinned,

"It's father and Robb, Jon… They're coming home."


	19. Chapter 19

**AN - Once again, with thanks to my beta reader. Please enjoy.**

Prepared To Do Anything

The only one who met them at the entrance hall was Robb. It seemed that their father was with the royal family and other lords paramount so he wasn't going to be attending to Jon and Bran just yet. Of course neither Jon nor Bran really minded having the chance to catch up with Robb before more serious topics came up later.

Jon noted that his brother seemed to have grown another few inches, now standing taller than himself slightly. Robb also appeared to be in better shape, though the slight pink-mostly-healed cut across his left cheek showed that Robb hadn't just sat back and commanded the troops as some of the nobles and their sons likely would have done.

Bran let Robb dismount first before launching himself at him. Jon watched, amused, as two of his brothers laughed and clung to each other. Standing a little bit apart, Jon let Bran have his time with Robb's undivided attention - he wasn't a child after all, he didn't require the attention of his family to know they cared. Bran was just beginning to leave that stage of life, but he would let his brother have a little bit of immaturity left and this was one of the ways he would be allowed to show that immaturity.

After a few moments more with Bran, Robb grinned at Jon and made his way forwards. Jon held out his hand to grasp his brother's forearm but Robb took one look at his outstretched hand before laughing and pulling Jon into a tight hug. Jon grunted a little in surprised pain, his wound was healing but it was still tender and Robb was still wearing his light armour. He shook his head ruefully before returning the hug,

"I missed you brother."

Ah, leave it to Robb to strip away the bitterness of war that had coated Jon. All with a hug and some fraternal affection. He grinned right back, reaching up and grabbing Robb by the chin, making a show of tilting his head to look at the wound that would obviously be a scar on his brother's cheek,

"Oh brother, brother, brother... what will you do now? Your good looks were all you had going for you!"

Robb scowled playfully as Bran came back over and added his two silvers to the discussion of Robb's face,

"I don't see a difference." he remarked with a little wide grin, "He always did look like a wolf had decided his face was a chew toy."

Speaking of wolves, Ghost and Summer, who had been waiting patiently behind their owners, were now playfully wrestling with Grey Wind. Summer was now the smallest and Grey Wind and Ghost, the former runt, were being the roughest with each other in their little tussle. Jon broke the hug reluctantly and whistled once. Ghost immediately untangled himself from his brothers to sit in front of Jon patiently. He scratched the wolf behind the ears before noticing that it took Robb a few attempts to reign Grey Wind back in.

Bran led them back into one of the towers that had been taken over by the lords of the North that had accompanied Bran's host. Naturally they had to climb to the very top of the tower to reach the apartments offered to the Stark family. Once there, Robb sighed as he sat down atop the bed,

"Straw... better than the bed-roll and worse than those feather beds of Highgarden." he joked with a grin as he rolled around, "This is the comfort of The North!"

Jon snorted as he stood next to the window, watching as the King's host camped around Moat Cailin with Bran's own host amongst them,

"I thought all the soft beds and soft women would have ruined you." he commented with a raised eyebrow, "Highgarden you say? I can't imagine that was a hardship for you."

Left unsaid was the idea that Robb might have gotten the chance to speak to Margery. Jon might not have let her brother win because of her charms but he'd have to have been blind to ignore that she was an incredibly beautiful woman. Robb would have, no doubt, jumped at the opportunity to speak with her. His brother was a man after all and she was enough to get any man riled up to be honest - the woman was temptation wrapped in silks.

He doubted Robb would have seen a reason to try and resist her charms so likely wouldn't have. If she had been there to beguile him that was, Jon didn't doubt that she would have also been around the Prince. Speaking of, Bran had mentioned the Prince during Jon's deep thoughts and Robb had a rather ugly look on his face,

"Prince Joffrey..." he scowled a little bit before looking around, as if checking to see if he might be overheard. He seemed to realise he would not be because he nodded to himself and continued, "The prince is a sadistic little fool."

Well that was rather surprising. Although King Robert had been capable of great violence in his youth, none had ever accused him of using violence in a cruel capacity. To find that his son, Prince Joffrey, was indulging in traits usually found within the Targaryen family tree was somewhat worrying to be honest. Bran seemed to take Robb's word as the truth simply because Robb had said it but Jon wanted to know more,

"Why do you say that?" he asked with a raised eyebrow, "Come on brother - details."

Robb snorted a little bit at Jon's light jab about the three of them acting like gossiping teenage girls. He picked up a water skin from his belt and drank first,

"The commanders of the Daughters were idiots." he admitted with a little shrug, "Only reason I could think that this little stunt worked. Anyway - Joffrey is granted control of a mix of Lannister and Baratheon men, right? Some five thousand or so. Only a thousand cavalry. He meets an army of about seven thousand Daughters men in the field. He rounds up some nasty buggers and sets them to 'motivate' the men to do as he commands."

There was a pause,

"What he commands is that the infantry of his entire army line up in a massive column and just march forwards. No blocking arrows or charging - he makes them walk with drummer boys working out a beat. They walk slowly towards hundreds of men with fucking crossbows!" he shook his head in dismay, "Crossbows are fucking evil I tell you. But anyway, those rough buggers are forcing the men to stay in pretty ranks, just walking. Almost three thousand of his men die just walking forwards - the Daughters men charge. And the cavalry breaks through the trees on either side to smash into them like a pincer."

Jon couldn't help but think that he should be more appalled than he actually was. The tactic left a lot to be desired, naturally, but the premises was solid. The infantry had drawn the attention of the enemy commanders, allowing the cavalry to reposition themselves for maximum effect. Not only that but he supposed there would be a level of the 'fear factor' in play as well. Thousands died and their fellow soldiers just stepped over them to keep walking forwards to the beat of a drum? He imagined that would have caused a few nightmares once the lines actually touched. Personally he would have done the same but with the infantry protected with a heavy shield wall. No use in letting your men die when the effect of their deaths wasn't worth enough of an advantage. In the end though, Jon had to admit it was a decent tactic, if very basic. So many aspects of it could have been improved after all. But in the end, the result mattered as well,

"And the army of the Daughters?"

Robb stared at Jon for a moment, as if checking to see if he actually approved of the tactic. In the end he just sighed a little bit, scratching the little beard that had begun to grow on his chin,

"About two thousand managed to break the encirclement and flee." he shrugged slightly, "The prince didn't have enough men left to make the encirclement any stronger."

So, the prince had done something that made him incredibly unpopular with his men. He had lost three out of four men from his infantry in a tactic that hadn't even allowed him to destroy the enemy. Two thousand enemies had been allowed to escape - the routed forces outnumbers the Prince's own forces for Gods' sake. That meant the Prince would have been wide open for a very successful counter attack. Though, Robbs comment about the stupidity of said commanders led him to believe that no counter attack had been mounted. Jon shook his head in disbelief,

"So the prince fucked up and managed to survive only due to luck and the incompetence of the Daughters' commanders?" Jon clicked his tongue, "Not a great warrior like his father, leading from the front, I take it?"

Jon couldn't imagine the pale, blond, boy he remembered vaguely from the tournament standing with his men in the middle of such a suicidal push forwards. No, he imagined that the prince would have sat with his personal guard at the very rear of the attack, safe from crossbow bolts and spears. Robb snorted, falling back on the bed to stare up at the ceiling,

"The Fat King. He isn't a warrior any more - he tried to lead from the front but he got unhorsed in the first clash. The crown is down two Kingsguard now, Ser Moore and Ser Trant died protecting the King. He broke his leg and got dragged away, much to his anger." he sniggered a little bit, "So, honestly, I'd say father and son are about equal right about now. Both are about as much use on the battlefield themselves as a wet shit."

The two men who were supposed to be in charge of protecting the realm... one a fat drunk who couldn't stay atop his own horse and one a callous young man with no regard for the lives of his men and incredibly short-sighted plans. They were the 'protectors of the realm'? If they were what the realm had to defend itself with then the realm was well and truly fucked. Jon sighed a little bit as he thought about that - fucking depressing.

Jon slumped against the wall in much the same way as Robb was now slumped on the bed. Both of them knew what kind of dire straits the kingdom was in when its defences were being pressed and its defenders were ruled by the incompetent. Bran had some idea of the situation but not in the same depth and Jon and Robb did,

"So have the invaders been pushed back?" he asked, playing with Summer's fur, "Where did they invade anyway?"

Jon had to admit he was curious about that too. He hadn't had a chance to go through the backlog of reports that Lord Varys had, somehow, known to have re-routed to Moat Cailin. In the end it hadn't mattered to him at all - he had been busy securing the North and the invasion had not taken place in the North. Robb shook his head from where he lay,

"Invaders are still in the Kingdoms."

Alarm bells sounded within Jon's head. The invaders were still within the Seven Kingdoms? The Kings host was a mixture of Crownlanders, Stormlanders and Westerlanders - he had marched back north with fifty thousand men, not including the fifteen thousand Northmen who had returned with Robb and their father. To move such a massive army from the front lines was, in Jon's honest opinion, nothing short of madness. But he supposed the Greyjoys had pushed for madness in response to their own. Robb had continued,

"They invaded the Cape of Wrath in the southern Stormlands." he revealed, "They've taken most of the peninsula. Weeping Town, Rain House and Mistwood are held by the enemy. The little island? Estermont or whatever it's called? That's under siege but holding for now."

Jon recognised some of the places but not all of them. He did seem to recall that the cape wasn't all that far away from Storms End. Of course he doubted that even the most foolish of the commanders from the Daughters would attempt to land troops upon a bay named SHIPBREAKER BAY. Sometimes even the stupidest of people realised that something was a bad idea after all. And losing the cape lost the Stormlands an awful lot of their most fertile lands.

He rubbed at his eyes with his hand as he thought about what all of this meant for the realms,

"And what forces were left to oppose them?"

Robb sighed from over on the bed but Jon was busy examining the standards he could see from the window. The Lannisters were here. The Tullys were here, though it what capacity he didn't know because the sigil appeared strange in the dying light of the evening. The royal standard was there, of course, but so was the standard of the House Baratheon - Renly or Stannis was here as well? Who was left to try and keep the pressure up on the invaders?

"Lord Tarly was granted command. Some ten thousand spears from Dorne, fifteen thousand knights of the Reach and about ten thousand Stormlands infantry." The numbers sounded impressive until Robb snorted and added, "And the Daughters forces in the area are rumoured to be almost one hundred thousand men. And they're being resupplied by their navies."

So the King had rode up here to put down the Greyjoys, presumably, and left the Cape of Wrath in enemy hands with only thirty five thousand men to pen in one hundred thousand? That sounded absolutely ridiculous to Jon. The North alone had pretty much crippled the Greyjoys, and they'd been scraping the barrel when it came to men! What was the King playing at?

Whatever it was, Jon had a sinking feeling that it was going to cost the Kingdoms dearly. He shook his head in despair,

"What in all the hells is the King doing up here?"

There was a pause before a new voice, from the door, answered,

"And here I thought Starks would never question the decisions of their liege lord?" came the drawling tone of Jaime Lannister, who was now revealed to be standing in the doorway, "Though, maybe it's only you stirring up trouble eh? Not really a Stark after all."

Robb tensed at the man's arrival while Bran seemed caught between trying to act grown up and trying not to gush over the famous knight in front of him. Jon looked at the golden knight for a long moment, not saying anything and not breaking eye contact. The Lannister just smiled that smug little smile right back. The moment stretched on,

"Ser Jaime." he greeted the other knight, "Does the King require something?"

The Lannister's smile became slightly strained at the subtle reminder that, as a member of the Kingsguard, he was little more than a glorified bodyguard and servant. Jon didn't feel the need to step on eggshells around the Lannister man, by law the heir to Casterly Rock was the dwarf, followed by Kevin Lannister and his sons. The eldest of which was Lancel, Jon's close friend. So he had long since gotten over any fear associated with the Lannister name. Jaime placed his hand at rest on his sword's hilt. Jon forced himself not to react to the subtle motion. Jaime suddenly managed a grin that somehow looked even smugger,

"Why yes, Ser Jon, he wishes to speak to you in his 'war chambers'." he admitted, moving to unblock the doorway, "We are to make all haste to him, good ser."

Jon nodded once before giving Robb a playful punch on the arm and ruffling Bran's hair gently. He followed the Kingsguard down through the tower in silence, his own hand straying to rest against his sword. He had started wearing it again by his side since his injuries had mostly healed and he had never been more grateful for that than now. Something about being around Jaime Lannister just made Jon want to be on guard. He didn't know what it was about the man but he wouldn't be just ignoring his instincts like that.

Several men, from both hosts, greeted them as they made their way across the open courtyard to the least ruined of the towers of Moat Cailin. Apparently that was where the King and his 'war council' were assembled. He nodded to the Baratheon guard at the door and was about to enter when Ser Jaime held him back by his shoulder. Jon turned to him with narrowed eyes but Jaime just kept on smiling,

"You know they're looking for some kind of scapegoat for the invasion of The North, right?" he asked with a wide smile, "Word around the camps is they plan to blame The North's lack of preparation on you and your Order. Say something about how your Order failed in its mission to protect the North or something."

Well... that was information that Jon would happily arm himself with, going into the King's council meeting. He did wonder what Jaime would get out of telling him what to expect. His gaze must have conveyed as much because the Kingsguard just shrugged a little bit,

"Why am I telling you? Well, as fun as it would be to watch you squirm in front of them, I know you didn't do anything wrong." he admitted, sounding downright reasonable and lacking his customary smugness, "You did a lot to defend the North. That and the way cousin Lancel speaks of you, I might have competition! And I'd hate to see you short a head just because the King's council decides they want to railroad you. So just stand your ground. If they see you're a difficult target they'll move on."

Jon nodded, feeling rather confused about how he was going to actually avoid being used as a scapegoat for the sacking of parts of The North. He didn't have chance to do much thinking about it before the guard at the door opened it and Ser Jaime almost pushed Jon into the chamber with the war council waiting for him.

Jon was admitted to the King's war council by the guard at the door. He took one step inside before the door was slammed behind him. He couldn't help but hear the sound of the lock turning and it sounded far more ominous than he had previously thought possible for something as benign as a lock.

Although he supposed that might have had something to do with being locked in a tower room with some of the most powerful men in Westeros. And, if Jaime Lannister was to be believed, they were looking to pin the blame for the Ironborn invasion squarely on his shoulders.

Apparently pledging to protect one of the Seven Kingdoms meant that any attack that befell that kingdom was, somehow, on his head. Sometimes Jon wished he had just stayed Jon Snow but that was something he couldn't take back - he was Ser Jon Whitewolf, commander of the Lords of Winter. There was no taking that back now and he wouldn't even if he could.

Jon straightened himself as he stepped forwards to stand before the long table. King Robert was sat at the centre of the table - Jon lowered his eyes before falling to one knee before the King of Westeros,

"Your Grace."

The others were less important than the King but still very important, very powerful, people. Tywin Lannister, Lord Paramount of the West. Brynden Tully, the Blackfish. Renly Baratheon, Lord of Storms End. Lord Varys, Master of Whispers. And, of course, Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Lord Paramount of The North.

And Jon's father.

The King bade Jon to rise with a gesture of his hand and Jon rose back to his feet, standing stiffly at attention under the withering eyes of some of the men present. The King seemed to be almost disinterested in the proceedings, drinking a goblet of wine and waving to Tywin Lannister to speak. Jon noticed the barely-there lip curl that Tywin had done at being waved at like some kind of dog. None the less, the Lord of Casterly Rock stood, gaining all of Jon's attention.

The Old Lion he might be but it appeared that Tywin Lannister took good enough care of himself in his younger years to still look imposing just by standing. There was something beyond the physical that made people pay attention to Tywin Lannister it would seem. Jon didn't let himself be cowed, holding the Lord's gaze,

"Ser Jon Whitewolf. Your knightly order, the so called 'Lords of Winter', have made it their charge, their duty, to protect The North. Is this true?"

Ah he could see where this was going already. They wouldn't be this blatant if they were looking for a scapegoat would they? If you were this obvious about it then people realised the scapegoat wasn't at fault and started asking themselves why you felt the need to punish the wrong person - often leading to the accuser being the one blamed by the general public of lords, knights and smallfolk.

"Aye." he admitted, not breaking his gaze with Tywin, "Our charge is the defence of The North and its people."

Tywin didn't even bother acknowledging what he had actually said. The statement was only ever going to be a variation of "yes" after all,

"And yet, under the watchful eyes of your order, The North found itself invaded by the Ironborn." he continued, his eyes seemingly boring a hole into Jon, "Some would say that you failed in your duty. What do you have to say in your defence?"

Jon was going to just push straight into it but he paused, holding himself back as he thought of something. He turned away from Tywin to address the King who was, at this point, most of the way through a goblet of wine the size of a child's head,

"Your Grace." he bowed his head to the King, "Do I have your permission to speak freely?"

A loaded question.

He was a bastard knight commander of a new knightly order. He didn't have a position high enough to talk back to one of the Lords Paramount without getting some form of protection from the King himself. The King looked amused at the whole affair while Lord Lannister just stared. It wasn't even a glare - it was cold, entirely devoid of heat - but Jon knew it might be more dangerous than a glare from another man.

The King hummed as he pretended to think about the answer. After all, it was common knowledge that the King enjoyed snubbing people he didn't particularly like. And Tywin Lannister wasn't the type of man that most people liked as a person,

"Very well Ser Jon, you may speak as you like." he declared with a snort, "Just try not to tweak the Lion's tail too badly - I've got to march back south with the bugger!"

The King laughed at his own joke but no one else seemed to be in a joking mood. Renly gave a tense little chuckle while Jon's father just frowned. The Blackfish didn't even react and Tywin's fists seemed to tighten just a little bit more. Jon held up a hand,

"Peace. I do not seek to insult anyone." he admitted calmly, "I only wish to ask some questions of my own. For example... will the captains of the Lannister fleet be punished? Or the Flints of Flints Finger? Or the captains of Seaguard?"

He didn't let anyone speak before pushing on through,

"Or Lord Varys for not getting his whispers through? Or maybe the ravens for not flying fast enough?" he narrowed his eyes as he looked at all of the assembled Lords, "I assembled as soon as I was made aware. If my reaction was delayed it was because my information was delayed. If I had been told of the impending invasion before the ships landed I would have met them on the beaches."

There was a silence as Jon stepped back to where he had knelt before,

"Instead I had to work with almost no information." he paused before adding, "And my order STILL managed to defend The North. Deepwood Motte? Retaken. Winterfell? The siege lifted. Moat Cailin? We rode at the front of the advance and I myself defeated Victarion Greyjoy in single combat to secure The North."

Tywin merely stared at him for a few moments longer before nodding to the King and sitting back down. Confused, Jon turned to the King as well, who just began laughing. It started off as a chuckle before it gradually grew into the deep 'belly-laugh' that the Fat King was famous for,

"There's a fire in that boy of yours Ned!" he declared, getting Jon's father to give a small smile but otherwise not react as boisterously as his friend the King, "Ser Jon! You don't need to worry - we're not blaming you. We're wanting to talk to you about the Ironborn scum though!"

Lord Varys leant forwards slightly, his sleeve still covering his lower face, as if he found the smell of the tower room offensive,

"Indeed, Ser Jon, we are wanting to discuss possible actions in regards to the Ironborn." he tittered a little bit, "You have a lot of information about them after all, ser."

Well... if this wasn't a change of events then Jon didn't know what was. They had been testing him for his response? That was a strange one. He couldn't help but think that this had all been the King's idea of a jape - the Fat King seemed like the kind of man to have such a terrible sense of humour.

He did have a lot of experience with the Ironborn however. Some of the older Lords and knights had memories of fighting the Ironborn during the Greyjoy rebellion but that had been some years ago. Now was the chance to check if their tactics had changed over the years since the failed rebellion. The simple answer was that yes, the tactics had, in fact, changed.

Theon Greyjoy had been tutored in the 'Greenlander' ways of battle. Whereas before the Ironborn had no idea how to conduct a good siege for example, now they had the same level of tutoring in besieging a castle as Jon himself had. Neither of them had the same level of knowledge as Robb had been afforded but it was still enough to shift the Ironborn tactics slightly. After all, they didn't have to content themselves with just raiding and hit-and-run tactics.

Theon had taught them how to take a castle and how to hold it against sieges.

Shouldn't help them all too much when the host of King Robert was pounding down the gates of Pyke however. He nodded his head in understanding, relaxing slightly where he actually stood now,

"My lessons on the Ironborn taught me that they were a highly mobile force that relied on surprise, speed and brutality." he reported concisely, "However, Theon Greyjoy was taught, in some detail, how to conduct a siege. How to withstand a siege. He has taught the other Ironborn commanders, with some success."

He paused as he collected his thoughts,

"It is my... personal recommendation..." he glanced at his father for a moment before setting his jaw and finalising the thought, "It is my recommendation that the Greyjoy line be ended. They are the only thing that holds the Iron Islands together as a force and have proven themselves capable of taking our lands, rather than just being a menace to the small folk. Your Grace... my Lords... I urge you to burn Pyke to the ground and end the Greyjoy line."

Silence greeted his recommendation now.

Jon didn't look at his father. He knew exactly how his honourable lord father felt about destroying houses root and stem - his opinion on the deaths of the young dragons had been rather well shared amongst the Kingdoms too. But none would mourn House Greyjoy, a house without youngsters and with no goodwill of any 'Greenlander' houses. But still, he knew his father would... would be ashamed of the suggestion he had just made. The King himself looked between Jon and his father, the thoughtful look on his face looking entirely out of place.

Varys had half his face covered by his sleeve but Jon knew that gaze on him was rather intense for some reason. The Blackfish didn't seem to care one way or the other and Jon got the impression that the old knight was only here because the King was known to enjoy war stories from some of the famous knights of the realm - one of the reasons why Barristen Selmy was still Lord Commander of the Kingsguard despite getting on in years.

Tywin Lannister however, was looking at Jon as if he was interesting. A particularly interesting insect, perhaps, but there was interest there regardless. The Lannister lord likely approved of the idea - it would ensure the sea trade to Lannisport would see much less disruption in the long run and it worked as revenge for the Ironborn attacks on the Westerlands as a whole. And that was all ignoring the fact that Tywin would likely support it because he himself had enacted a plan of a similar build to deal with the Reins of Castamere, as the song said.

The silence continued for a few more beats before the King spoke again,

"Ser Jon that will be all." He declared, suddenly looking very grave," Stand outside and await our decision. My lords and I have much to discuss."

Jon bowed to the King,

"Your Grace."

He turned, catching the disappointment on his father's face. He swallowed thickly and bowed once more,

"My lords."

Jon stepped outside, the door having been opened by the same guard. He moved without really thinking about where he was going. He wanted to go for a walk, to pace if nothing else, so that he could stew on what had been discussed in that tower. But, he realised with a start, he had to remain nearby. Groaning in annoyance, he retraced his steps to the tower and pulled up a crate to sit with his back against the exterior of the tower.

He might think better while he was pacing but the cool stone against the back of his head, the subtle scents of The North passing him by... it might not help him think but it was able to put him a little bit more at ease. Here he was, in The North, and his family was safe. It was all he had ever asked for as a child - to remain in The North and for his family to remain safe. Even Robb, who had gone off to war, was back and he was safe.

But for how long?

That was the question, which was what nagged and gnawed at him the more he thought about it. He hadn't been warned in time about a potential threat and it had almost lost The North's capital, not to mention both of his sisters and two youngest brothers. He had managed to save them this time but what about next time? What if there was another siege of Winterfell and no one told him because he was off, for example, in Last Hearth fighting wildlings? No.

No.

The only way he could consistently protect his family, and The North, was if he knew every threat before it came. And that was just not feasible. So the only other option? Which accounted for all but the most surprising of attacks? To strike first. The Ironborn were proven enemies of the Stark family and The North in general. If given even the slightest sliver of a chance to attack again, he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that the Ironborn would take it. So he would strike first - destroy the stability of the Iron Islands and ruin any chance of them ever forming large enough navies to be a threat again. And all it would take was the death of one family and the destruction of their home.

The plan itself might be similar to Lord Tywin's attack on his own rebels in execution and goal but the reasons behind them were different. Jon wanted to put the Greyjoys down because they threatened his family. Tywin wanted to put his own rebels down to secure his family's control of the Westerlands and... and it wasn't any different. Tywin Lannister destroyed the rebelling houses to protect his family, to make sure no other house rose against them to threaten them. So even just sitting here he now knew that he was no better a man than Tywin Lannister? That was a depressing thought.

Jon would still not be killing children, however, so maybe he still had a little bit of a moral high ground against the Old Lion.

Maybe.

Either way, his plan was not something that a Stark of Winterfell would be caught doing. Not under the rule of his father at least - at least once before the Starks of The North had proven themselves to be as ruthless as any southern house. The Greystarks could attest to the ruthlessness of at least some Stark Lords. But his father had been raised by Lord Arryn - honour had held the highest position in his father's heart since the death of his wife.

Of course Jon was the last person to feel sorry for the lack of Caitlin Stark in Winterfell. The woman had made it her life's mission to make his life either miserable or just simply over. And all because of the imaginary fear that he would resent his siblings enough to usurp what was theirs.

But now was not the time to dwell on a bitter dead woman.

It was growing dark but Jon just waited still. There was a rather loud conversation happening within the tower but he had no way of making out what was being said - only that it was being said predominately by two people. He'd have bet gold dragons that the two main voices were actually the King and his father. He thought he heard Renly's voice included but, predictably, he heard very little from any of the other three. Probably because if they were speaking at all, they spoke at more 'civilised' levels than the others. But it meant that there wasn't likely to be any kind of decision made just yet.

And so Jon would continue to sit on a crate outside the tower while the King and some of his greater lords argued about the validity of his plan. They probably weren't even bringing up any problems he hadn't already thought about himself. After all, he had been stewing on this idea since Deepwood Motte. Back then it had been a purely emotional response but he had had the time to analyse the idea in a number of different ways and it was, at the end of the day, a rather solid plan.

Economically the Iron Islands gave the rest of the Kingdoms some fishing, some navigators and iron. The Iron production had already been in freefall since the last Rebellion because they used slaves to mine it and all the slaves had been freed. More iron production from The North had picked up the slack anyway. So destabilising the region wouldn't affect the economy of the Seven Kingdoms all that much.

Trade wise? Hell, trade wise John was almost certain that the number of trading ships that "went missing" along the western shores of Westeros would decrease drastically, increasing trade along those shores.

It wouldn't even cost too much in terms of military. The assault on Pyke would hurt in terms of manpower but after that there would be a civil war amongst the Islands to determine the next Lord of the Iron Islands - all the King would have to do is choose one to support and, potentially, give some fighting men and supplies. The civil war would probably go on for a long time, leaving the King mostly free to defeat the forces of the Daughters before returning his attention to the Iron Islands.

Jon had even gone so far as to make a list of suitable candidates for the Lord of the Iron Islands for gods' sake! Of course it was a very short list. Rodrik Harlaw of Ten Towers was the man for the job, as far as Jon could see. The man was intelligent, cautious for an Ironborn, a powerful lord within the Islands and related, by marriage, to the Greyjoys. He had a tiny link to the Greyjoys and was an overwhelmingly good choice when compared to the others.

But that wasn't actually his decision to make. He could make all the plans he liked but, at the end of the day, The Fat King was the one who would make the decision - or at least, the Lord Hand, Jon Arryn was the one to make the decision. He was the 'power behind the throne' as the saying went - just as the Hand of the King was always the person who did the actual work.

Jon almost jumped when the door to the tower was flung open violently. He jumped to his feet on seeing his father storming out of the tower, the King's voice echoing into the night after him,

"GO BACK THEN YOU FUCKING COWARD! GO BACK TO WINTERFELL!"

Jon made to catch up with his father but the older man seemed to spot him. He stopped dead and gave Jon a look of... well it looked like a mixture of anger, disappointment and relief,

"I have talked Robert out of your plan." he told Jon bluntly, "That is all for today Jon - I need to be alone."

His father left and Jon just kind of stood there, feeling a tad numb. He had put forward the idea to protect his family and his father was almost shunning him for it. Obviously he wasn't being shunned and he knew that, intellectually, but emotionally all he could see was his father standing against him because his plan to save their family from future harm didn't conform to the man's strict code of honour.

He turned back to the tower, noticing the King storming out of it with two members of the Kingsguard trailing behind. It appeared his idea had driven a wedge between the King and his father - either that or the relationship had been strained already. Considering what he had heard, he didn't doubt that there had been some tension there regardless of what he came up with as a plan.

Jon had been about to wander off, ready to actually begin pacing, when a voice stopped him short,

"They don't understand."

He turned to face a rather bored-looking Tywin Lannister. The Old Lion regarded him with a cool expression,

"The King and Lord Stark. They don't understand that when you're dealing with men like the Greyjoys, men without honour... clinging to your own honour serves you ill." he declared, looking off at Lord Stark's retreating form, "The Greyjoys are a threat to my family. They are a threat to your own."

There was a tense silence.

Tywin made a gesture for Jon to follow him. Jon might have rejected the request had he not currently been grappling with his resolve to protect his family and his father's anger in the face of what he would do to fully ensure the safety of their family. But right now he was more than a little bit lost. He followed Tywin wordlessly and the two of them began walking around the ruined curtain wall of Moat Cailin. The silence wasn't uncomfortable – it was honestly rather quiet in the same kind of enjoyable way that wandering through nature with a friend could be. Of course, Tywin Lannister was no one's friend. Not unless they had the name Lannister.

Jon actually felt a little bit more relaxed now that he was being given a chance to actually pace. He had been holding in the urge to be in motion for hours it seemed. The fact that one of the most dangerous men in Westeros was walking by his side was something that Jon paid no mind. His father hated Tywin Lannister but Jon was not his father. Evidently he was nothing like his father – his father was horrified by an idea that Jon could still not bring himself to see as anything other than a necessary pre-emptive strike.

He almost didn't stop when Tywin did.

Pausing, he stopped to check his surroundings immediately – something he had taught himself to do as often as possible. He immediately understood why they were here. The Silent Sisters were here, preparing the bodies of the dead. Jon just looked out at the neat-little rows of the dead. None of the Ironborn dead were here – they were being seen to on the actual battlefield. But those who had died for The North? They lay right there, in the shadow of Moat Cailin. Not a pleasant smell, of course, but no one would dare complain about the smell of their fallen comrades, men who had proven themselves willing to lay down their lives for their land.

In their case, the land took them, ever grateful of their sacrifice and their devotion to duty.

Jon couldn't stop himself. His hand tightened up into a fist and he pressed it against his heart as he looked out over the honoured dead. He let go of the salute after a few moments. Tywin was just looking out over the bodies but it was clear that he had been waiting for him to finish paying his respects to the dead.

"You have made something of yourself, boy." He spoke, his voice quiet but cutting through any wind or noise so Jon could hear every word. Surprisingly, he didn't feel annoyed at being addressed as boy. He supposed that quite a lot of grown men were called boy by Tywin Lannister, "You were born a bastard but a bastard of a father who acknowledged you. His wife died and you would have been able to live comfortably without working a day in your life. But you didn't. Why?"

It didn't really sound like a question but it wasn't forceful enough to really be a demand either. He glanced back out over the dead for a moment before answering the elder man,

"I saved my brother's life. On that day I swore to myself that I would protect my family." He admitted to Tywin, not really understanding why he felt the need to explain his motivations to Tywin Lannister of all people, "I dedicated myself to upholding that oath. I ignored distractions, I trained harder than my brother and applied myself to my studies. In the end, I decided I could better protect my family as the commander of a knightly order than as a lone man."

There was a noise that seemed to be somewhat approving from Tywin before the silence came again and both men returned to watching the Silent Sisters preparing the dead. The darkness was closing in faster now but neither of them made to move. Tywin broke the silence,

"The Lannister fleet was severely damaged during a large raid. I still have many sailors however, the ships were mostly destroyed in dock you see." He paused before adding, "And these sailors have captured Ironborn longships from the coasts of the Westerlands. I'm told your order holds the Iron Victory – paid for in the Iron Price, just the same as its captain's armour."

Oh he knew what Tywin was suggesting.

Oh it was quite easy for him to see,

"The King has forbidden an invasion of Pyke?"

Tywin made another noise of approval at the question before giving a tiny, barely perceivable, nod,

"The King has forbidden any of his Lords from invading the Iron Islands." He agreed, "Your father, Eddard Stark, was most insistent that your plan be ignored. The King agreed with Lord Stark but not for the same reasons – the King does not wish to lose thousands of men when the invaders still hold onto Westerosi soil."

There would be no protection offered to him if he were to take this course of action. That was what Tywin was trying to stress to him. And that if the action fell apart, it would not be traced back to the Lannisters at all. Jon absorbed all of this information as he looked out across the field of dead Northmen. Tywin paused,

"You are, in many ways, the ideal son, boy." He admitted, surprising Jon enough to face the Lannister lord, "Other than your bastardry of course. But other than that… smart enough to know you're never the smartest person in the room, skilled enough to know how and when to fight… and possessing the fiercest loyalty to family I have ever seen in one who is not a father himself. Your father will, eventually, forgive you for anything you do."

Leave it to Tywin Lannister to recognise one of the factors holding him back and negate it. And he was right. No matter what he did, Jon knew that his father would love him and would, eventually, forgive him for whatever he did. Eddard Stark loved his children with an intensity that was only matched by his sense of honour and duty. Jon nodded once,

"Now I will ask you once, Ser Jon Whitewolf…" Tywin continued, turning to lock gazes with Jon, "What are you prepared to do to safeguard your family?"

There was only one answer.

"Anything."


	20. Chapter 20

**AN - Thanks again to my beta, Shinigami Merchant, and to all of you who took the time to review. I hope you enjoy this next chapter.**

The All-Consuming Flame

Jon didn't say goodbye to Bran, Robb, Arya, Dacey or even his father.

He wanted to. He wanted to have one last moment with them because he knew that this pursuit of his might well be the last thing he did. It was as dangerous as any battle he had ever been in before but with the additional danger of having absolutely no chance of back up beyond what he had managed to scrounge up to come with him. And he had denied himself the comfort of saying goodbye to the people he cared about - because they couldn't know what he planned to do until it was too late for them to try and stop him.

What he was doing, had to be done.

But none of them would understand that. His father was far too honourable to condone wiping out an entire family and a port city. Robb would stand with their father on this, even if he would see the strategic benefits of removing the Ironborn as a threat. Bran wouldn't understand why he had to do it. Arya wouldn't understand either but she would be angry, whereas Bran would be sad. And Dacey... well, Dacey would want to come with him and he couldn't allow that.

So he told none of them.

His friends, the remains of his Order, he had spoken to. He had spoken to Lancel, to Harrion and to Edric. They had passed the word only onto the other members of the Order who remained. Some hundred men or so. It was a depressingly small number of people but it made it so much easier for them all to march out of the encampment under the guise of a larger scouting party.

When the resting host was as large as the King's, one hundred men was considered a tiny fraction of the forces after all.

Jon had been, and still was even now, surprised that every single remaining member of his Order had decided to come with him on this errand, on this madness. He had expected some of them, those he was closest to, to either come to aid him or to attempt to talk him out of it. But none of them spoke out against the plan, they just pledged themselves to his crusade against the Ironborn, against the Greyjoys.

The Order had marched down the coast to a small bay that Tywin had made Jon aware of. Nestled in the bay was no less than five longships - including the Iron Victory. The crews were all pirates or sell sail - they knew how to sail and they had been paid more than enough to ensure that they would do their part well enough. His Order had divided themselves between the longships, the largest amount of them under the deck of the Iron Victory.

And now here they were.

Jon was currently stood atop the Iron Victory, watching the speck on the horizon slowly growing larger as they neared it.

It barely seemed real come to think of it. He had barely recovered enough from his injuries to be considered battle-ready and here he was, ready to lay waste to the seat of Greyjoy power. He wasn't excited and he wasn't nervous either - it all felt like it was too surreal to be true. He honestly couldn't believe, in some corner of his mind that he was actually going through with this plan of his.

He still thought it was a good idea and he stood by his conviction that this would be better off for The North, the Starks, in the long run. What was still strange, however, was doing this despite his father's denouncement of the idea and the lack of support from the King. If anyone would have been for an all-or-nothing daring assault on the enemy, he was certain that the King would have been.

But it seemed that Jon's father had managed to convince the King to 'better choose his battles' or the like. The kind of lesson that Jon had drilled into him since he was young. The difference now, however, was that Jon and his father had different ideas about what battles were necessary. Jon believed, even with his stomach churning aboard the Iron Victory, that the battle was going to happen regardless of what anyone did. The Iron Islands WOULD feel the wrath of the Seven Kingdoms - the King couldn't let their second rebellion stand after all.

The difference, the stark difference, was that Jon realised that the battle needed to happen NOW. The Iron Islands needed to feel the wrath of their King as soon as possible, otherwise the raiding would continue and the threat would only rise with time and casualties. Waiting until the army of the Daughters was defeated was all well and good, but people would suffer during that period of inaction, the King's reputation as the protector of the realm would suffer and the people of The North would stew in resentment of the Southern realms and the southern King.

How long before the men and women of Bear Island started to realise that the King of the Seven Kingdoms had basically given the Ironborn reaving rights until the Daughters were defeated? Or the Flints? Or even the Reeds? And it would not be long after that realisation before the people of The North asked themselves, seriously asked themselves, why they bowed to a southern King. A man who was unable or unwilling to defend them in times of hardships but still took their strongest away to fight in his wars... Jon might not have been as interested in politics as he had been in arms training, but he knew enough of the mind-set of the Northern people.

They were a proud people, once a proud Kingdom, who had knelt only because their enemy had dragons. Dragons which had proven their worth upon the fields of fire. Rather than lose their lives and their independence, the North had submitted without battle, keeping their strength and their pride, but not their independence. But now? Now the King in the south didn't have dragons. The King in the south was a fat drunk - not even the warrior he had once been. The crown prince was a rotten little shit by all accounts... if there was a push, a blatant failure by the royal family, then the North would cry out for their independence.

And if Pyke and the Greyjoy's had taught the world anything, it was that no one kingdom could stand alone against Seven. It had been a lesson taught once to the Greyjoy's which they had ignored. Jon himself would teach them the second time and it would be the last time. And all of it less because of his hate for the Ironborn, more because of his love for the North and his desire to see it safe and protected. At the moment, being part of the Seven Kingdoms was in its best interests after all. Pyke? Well, the Greyjoy's and their little island were a cancer on the Seven Kingdoms. They would likely not be missed overly much.

Pyke, Jon had decided, was an ugly fucking island.

There was nothing but dark, exposed, rock, clumps of stubborn grass and the overall feeling that the island was constantly wet. It was a disgusting little island as far as Jon was concerned. He sighed as he shifted a little bit. Edric, dressed as a raider, complete with helmet, glanced at him,

"Stop squirming."

Jon gave his friend a mild glare before settling himself down in the stranger's armour. Well... not really a stranger's armour. Jon Whitewolf was riding the waves past the castle of Pyke towards Lordsport... while dressed from head to toe as Victarion Greyjoy. The man's ship was recognisable but the sight of a man wearing full plate armour, complete with a helmet that covered his entire face with the terrifying visage of a Kraken? It would fool almost anyone into thinking that he was Victarion Greyjoy, even without him having to say a word.

But the illusion could be shattered rather easily, as Edric was quick to remind him quite often when telling him off for fidgeting. Jon had no idea how Victarion had been able to strut around the deck of his longship so confidently while wearing this armour,

"I feel like I'm about to go arse over tit."

Edric smothered a laugh as the sell-sails worked around them and Lordsport became visible around the bend in the shoreline. It was a squat looking port but it was also, quite clearly, a city. Nowhere near the same size as, say, Seaguard or White Harbour. But, it was known to be the largest settlement on the Iron Islands and the main support for the castle of Pyke, which rested menacingly further up the small island.

To Jon, who had grown up in The North where space was never lacking, the island looked ridiculous. The castle was imposing, yes. And Lordsport wasn't anything to sniff at either. But the two of them? They crowded the island. Between the castle and the small city, there was virtually no space left on the island - as if you could ride a horse from the very end of the docks to the front gate of the castle within the space of a few moments.

A slight exaggeration, his tactical mind deduced. The distance between Lordsport and Pyke's castle was about a half an hours ride on horseback.

Not as close as he would have liked but close enough that he wouldn't have to alter the plan at all. He turned to Edric, noticing that the laughter had dried up now that they were able to truly see the Ironborn war machine in action. A dozen longships were being resupplied, re-tarred and otherwise repaired as their small armada docked carefully. Jon stilled the slight shake in his hand with an effort of will and forced himself to be as confident as possible as he stepped off the ship to face a pair of city guardsmen,

"Lord Victarion!" the lead guard declared, bowing his head slightly before righting himself, "We did not expect you to make such good time to the moot. King Balon has perished my lord... your brother Euron held a Kingsmoot and won the driftwood throne. He has called all lords of the Iron Islands that were away reaving to pledge themselves to him at Pyke."

Shit.

Shit.

SHIT!

The plan had been based around the idea that Balon was the one in charge of the Ironborn! Euron Greyjoy was an unknown - all Jon knew about him was that he had been exiled for years now and was known to be a very impressive sailor and fighter. Only other thing that was known was that Euron and Victarion hated each other with a passion - though the reason why changed depending on who you spoke to. At least he didn't have to hide the growl of frustration he felt at the change to his plan.

Wearing a full plate, fully closed helm like Victarion's had the benefit of having his voice vibrate around inside the helm before people could actually hear it, naturally making it sound deeper and rougher. Apparently his growl was what they expected as both guards seemed to take a step back, but neither made any motion to attack.

Would Victarion not seek to kill his hated brother?

Jon thought he wouldn't, actually, now that he had a second to think about it. The Kingsmoot had been held and Euron had won - it was one of the founding principles of the Ironborn and their Iron Islands and the Old Ways and all that shite. And Victarion was, in his own way, an honourable man. He had suggested the wrestling match and had been willing to see the conditions through, regardless of who turned out to be the victor. The only problem had been that Theon had not been. He grunted once, making a small motion with his head that could be taken for acceptance - a particularly reluctant level of acceptance but still.

The guards seemed to be very relieved by this and called for some horses. Edric, still in his disguise, spoke up,

"Fuck the horses - we need wagons!" he declared gruffly, picking up a large clay pot that had been one of many in the cargo hold, "Northern potato wine - this shit'll put hairs on your chest yer cunts!"

Northern Potato Wine - also known as Vodka and one of the strongest drinks in all of Westeros. Jon supervised some of his own men unloading the large clay pots as Edric made a show of being 'worn down' until he gave the two guards a bottle of the stuff for their personal use.

Good thing too, because it meant they didn't care to inspect the actual pots themselves. They did have vodka in them but that was mainly for the smell more than anything else, just in case the dock workers got curious. If they got curious enough to taste it, however, they would get a little hint of vodka along with the terrible taste of whale oil. The vodka within the pots would ignite quickly, igniting the whale oil, which would burn for much longer and with a little bit more natural resistance to being doused with water.

And despite the lack of trees on the island, almost every building within Lordsport was made from wood.

Jon didn't like to think of himself as a person who wished ill on a lot of people but the fact was that these people? These Ironborn? They were the kind of people would slit your throat for breathing at them in the wrong way. He wasn't exactly happy to kill them all in a blaze of fire and ash but he, equally, was not about to cry over them. They made the decision to continue the 'tradition' of reaving and raping the rest of the Seven Kingdoms and he would not forgive them for something like that - not when it had very nearly cost him his younger siblings.

Was the punishment much worse than the actual crime? Especially considering he would be burning the women and children of the raiders along with the criminals themselves?

Probably not. But Jon didn't much care about being fair right now. All that was on his mind right now was his goal - his family's safety and the continued protection of The North as a whole. He could not allow himself to waver now, not when he was so close to actually saving his people from an ancient enemy. All he would need to do was continue with the plan - if he did that then there could be no failure.

Two wagons were produced from one end of the port and Jon watched imperiously as his men loaded up the beds of both wagons with pots. Once the wagons were full there was almost two dozen pots loaded up, ready to head for the castle itself. Jon climbed up onto the front of the wagon, startling the driver until Edric pulled the man from the bench and took his place.

The Ironborn, both the real and Jon's disguised men, laughed at his misfortune as another of Jon's men took the reins of the second wagon. Two dozen of his men clambered up into the wagons with the cargo, 'to help unload'. The guards who had originally called out to him waved them on and the two wagons began their ride through the tight streets of Lordsport. Smallfolk looked at Jon was a mixture of fear and awe - he supposed there was something to be said about Victarion's reputation amongst the Ironborn. If the servants in the castle were half as awestruck as the smallfolk then he was going to be pushing the plan forwards, knowing that some of their victims would be unwittingly helping them.

He sat pensively on the bench as the small port city peeled away behind them and they began the short journey to Pyke itself. Jon's eyes narrowed behind his looted helm as the spires of the castle loomed ahead of him. Edric nudged him and he returned his attention to his captain,

"Lancel and Harrion are spreading the men out through Lordsport." he confirmed as was part of the plan, "Confirm, where do you want the most of the fire when it comes to leaving Pyke itself?"

Jon had run through some of the best places to place explosive caches of fire throughout a castle like Pyke. Too close to the top floors and the flames would be doused quickly by the near constant drizzle, along with the actions of the men manning the castle. He hummed slightly,

"Basement levels as priority, then ground floors. If possible make sure to have some pots near each bridge." he commanded, "When the fires start, they will want to escape from the rear most towers - cut off the bridges and they will die from fire, smoke or starvation. Either way, I don't care."

In some cases he hoped it would be a quick death from the smoke but for others? For some of the more famous raiders like Euron Greyjoy he hoped the flames tore the flesh from their bones before they were finally allowed to die. That man, in particular, Jon was looking forward to ending. And with Euron, Balon and Victarion dead there would be no Greyjoys left free and suitable for the crown - the final brother was some kind of monk that was constantly going on about drowning. With both of the remaining Greyjoy children in custody there would be no revival of the Greyjoy line.

Tywin Lannister had assured him that Theon and his sister would not be in any position to try and claim the Sea stone throne. Jon didn't trust the man but he trusted in his sense of self-interest. Greyjoy's returning to control the Iron Islands benefitted no one, especially not Tywin Lannister, not when Lannisport made for such a tempting target.

Jon wasn't stupid enough to trust the man - he just trusted in the man's all-consuming need to better his own family. Right now, Jon was a good tool for Tywin to use. There would come a time when that was no longer the case but for now? Well, for now it made sense for Tywin to use Jon as a tool for his will. Jon doubted Tywin would be able to push him to do anything he didn't want to do so he was happy to work with Tywin while their goals were aligned.

The journey was short and silent.

Jon couldn't speak much, for fear that he would give away his identity, and the men in the wagons didn't speak much either from nerves or anticipation. He didn't know which was going through the minds of his men but he knew enough to know that either was fine - the ones who went into battle telling everything they were either unafraid or excited were either the crazy ones or the stupid ones.

As his father always said, it was only when a man was afraid that he could be brave.

Jon looked up at the gatehouse as they approached it. He was worried he would have to command the gates to be opened and people would recognise that his voice was not at all similar to Victarion's. Thankfully, however, it appeared that the gate's guards had been expecting him. Which was odd, quite honestly. He had only arrived less than an hour ago and there would have been no way for the guards at the docks to get a message to the guards at the gate before the wagons got there. Which meant what? They were either expecting visitors in a general sense or they were expecting Victarion specifically.

He wasn't sure how to feel about this stroke of 'good luck'.

Dismounting from the wagon smoothly, Jon took a quick glance around. The first courtyard was rather small when he compared it to the courtyard of Winterfell. The walls seemed to be quite a bit thinner as well, especially towards the front. He supposed that would have been where the siege engines had broken the walls during the first Greyjoy rebellion. They'd never been fully repaired - it would have been good tactical information but Jon was planning on avoiding conventional tactics here so it was neither use nor ornament to him as things stood now.

His men began to unload the pots, giving out bottles of actual vodka to get the guards in a good enough mood to let them go without making too much of a fuss. Domeric was the captain in charge of the pots distribution. Jon nodded towards the entrance to the first of the three keeps and Edric, along with a half dozen of his men, peeled off from the unloading detail to follow him. The guards gave each other a look but opened the doors for him and his entourage.

The halls were full of men and servant women with different house sigils stitched onto their clothing in places. Most of them would be 'salt-wives' and the like so they had the sigils of the houses that owed them proudly displayed so others wouldn't be tempted to take them for their own.

Fucking barbarians.

And the Ironborn wondered why they didn't get any respect from any of the other regions of Westeros? Slavery had been outlawed in Westeros for an age and the Ironborn were the only group that flew in the face of that tradition. Seven Hells, even the wildlings believed that people were born free, that every man should be free of bondage - Wildlings! The same people who took shits in the snow and ate people.

It wouldn't matter much longer though.

The slaves here wouldn't have masters to serve for much longer. Some of them would die and Jon hoped that their gods showed mercy because he knew the flames would not. But even the weight of their lives on his shoulders would not be enough for Jon to call this off. He would be responsible for the deaths of innocents, that was true, but he would also be the one to end the threat of the Greyjoy's. Theon and his sister? Too young to command enough respect and unlikely to ever see the light of day again. Balon Greyjoy was dead. Victarion Greyjoy was dead and Jon was 'wearing his skin' as it were.

All he needed to do to put an end to the Greyjoy threat was kill Euron Greyjoy.

The first rope bridge crossing was… an experience. There was nothing to stop you looking down and the winds were not kind when you were this high up, above the slate grey seas. Jon himself was still wearing Victarion's plate armour so it was even less fun for him, considering he honestly thought the weight of the armour was going to snap the ropes and he was going to plunge to his death.

Good thing he wasn't afraid of heights on top of the very reasonable fear of a rope bridge not being able to support the weight of a fully grown man in plate armour. Of course Victarion had likely made the same trip very often and he had been bigger than Jon so he supposed that was slightly reassuring.

And he wasn't planning on coming back this way anyway so he hoped that this would be the last time he tried crossing such a precarious bridge in heavy armour.

Keeping an ear out for information, Jon learned on his way to the 'throne room' that the room was playing host to almost every Ironborn lord. Sure, there weren't actually that many, but to have them all in one room was… amazing. Edric turned to him as they approached the massive throne room doors,

"Are you sure we should proceed?" he asked quietly, "The rest of the Ironborn lords are in there. We're only here to kill Euron."

Jon had been thinking about it himself to be honest. The mission had been to kill Euron Greyjoy, cripple their shipbuilding capabilities and ruin the castle of Pyke. They were ambitious goals on their own. But to add to that, killing the entirety of the lords of the Ironborn? That would be harder. Not only harder to physically accomplish but also far harder to present this to the King after they were done.

The Greyjoy's were a house that had been given an extra chance and spat in the King's face. But the houses that followed the Greyjoy's… it could be argued that they were just showing loyalty to their liege lord. Ordinarily that would be commendable but when it came to choosing between the liege lord and the King, there shouldn't be any question - honour and duty bound you to the King over your lord.

Still… it was a very lovely opportunity.

The only other time all of these lords would be together again would be if there was a Kingsmoot - something that would be unlikely to happen until Euron was dead without heirs of his own. Sure, Euron's death had been scheduled to be earlier than expected but there wouldn't have been any way to attack the Kingsmoot afterwards. They would be on guard and much better protected.

This was their one chance.

Jon took a glance at the men who had followed him to this little speck of an island. They had followed him into Deepwood Motte and they had stood their ground with him in front of the gates of Winterfell. These were the men who had charged forwards to recover his body when Theon had betrayed the truce and these were the men who had put everything on the line to journey with him, here, to end the line of Greyjoy 'kings'. They were risking their lives just by being here, risking them for the chance to make sure that the threat of the Iron Islands was removed.

The Greyjoy's were a large part of that threat but they were not the only raiders on the Iron Islands. Other houses would raid, even as they warred amongst themselves. Only one of them seemed sensible enough to realise when he was beaten and that was Rodrik the Reader. Jon took a deep breath,

"We proceed." he said quietly, staring at the two guards standing in front of the throne room, still more than far enough away to not be able to hear them, "Ready the men. All guards first, then move in. Kill no lord until I give the command, capture only."

Edric paused and for the briefest of moments Jon believed that his faithful friend and squire was going to question him. He wouldn't have blamed the man either. But the moment passed and Edric nodded once before whispering the commands to the dozen men they had brought with them. Jon readied himself as best as he was able without alerting the guards on the throne room door. Edric returned to his side and Jon nodded to the guard on the right of the door.

Jon and Edric marched forward as one, Jon heading to the guard on the left of the door. The man opened his mouth to speak but Jon acted faster. Reaching out, he covered the man's mouth with his armoured hand before stabbing him in the side of the neck with the dagger that had been sitting on the guard's belt. The light slowly left the guard's eyes and Jon made sure to keep his hand covering the man's mouth until the life had fully left the man.

Wouldn't do for the man's death rattle to alert the guards inside the throne room.

Jon kept the man's corpse upright as Edric did the same, the rest of the men drawing their swords and their daggers quickly but silently. One of the braver men moved up to the throne room doors, one hand against the wood and the other clutching his steel. He looked to Jon for the go ahead.

Last chance.

They could probably still back out of this thing right now if Jon called this whole thing off. Once they attacked the throne room's occupants however, they were fully committed and they would have no choice but to push through their doubts and their enemies. Jon tightened his grip on the man's corpse before nodding once to his men.

The doors were thrown open and Jon's men charged in with their weapons at the ready. There were only two guards inside the throne room itself and they were soon dispatched quickly enough. At a large wooden table, however, were the Lords of the Iron Islands. Lords Drumm, Goodbrother, Harlaw and Kenning were present, along with some minor lords that Jon didn't know the name of. Jon dragged the guard's corpse inside, dropping it once he was inside to close the throne room doors, throwing the bar across them to block any attempts by the guards to break back inside.

When he turned back around only Euron Greyjoy wasn't being held captive. He had a sword in his hand and was currently backing away from two of the men Jon had brought. Jon noticed that Euron was actually surrounded. He scowled,

"No honour for Euron Greyjoy. Take him down."

Euron turned to him slightly and Jon's men capitalised. One of the men in front of him faked an attack, drawing his attention, and a man darted in from the side, stabbing his sword straight through Euron's upper leg. The King of the Iron Islands howled in pain but was silenced by a strong metal fist across the face before he was dragged back to the table, cursing everyone along the way. When they were all lined up together there were only ten of them, only five of which were actually important. Each man had one of Jon's men behind him, ready to restrain or kill on Jon's order. Predictably, Euron was the first to speak, his wooden crown askew atop his head,

"My dearest brother… what's the matter? Angry I managed to take advantage of Balon's unfortunate accident?" he asked, grinning like a madman, his teeth covered in blood, his only remaining eye glaring hatefully at him, "So much so that you're willing to ignore the ruling of a Kingsmoot AND become a kinslayer… You will be despised by all Ironborn - no Ironborn will accept you as their king!"

Jon just stared at the other man for a moment before reaching up and removing the helm. Instantly the lords of the Iron Islands seemed to understand. Not only was he clearly not Victarion, he did bear a very strong resemblance with his father. Some of them would, no doubt, remember his father leading the men that stormed their castles and killed their sons during the first Greyjoy Rebellion,

"Good morrow, my lords. I am Ser Jon Whitewolf on The North." he greeted the lords, dropping the large helm to the ground with a heavy thud, "Commander of the Lords of Winter. The man who captured Asha Greyjoy. Who killed Victarion Greyjoy in a wrestling match, as tradition dictated."

Edric took a sword from one of the lords. If the bone hand on the man's sigil didn't give it away, the distinctive pattern of Valyrian steel along the blade gave it away inside. Lord Drumm struggled mightily, even continuing to try and grab his sword when the guard pressed a knife to his throat. The guard looked for Jon's approval and he nodded. Lord Drumm clawed at the red line that had been drawn across his throat even as Edric present the Valyrian steel sword to Jon.

Jon took the sword with a cautious hand, smiling slightly as he tested its weight as its previous owner bled out by his feet,

"Valyrian steel… feels so light. But we all know its edge is sharp." he turned back to the assembled lords, "My charge, as commander of my knightly order, is the defence of the North. You threaten The North. You have raided before and now you have invaded. It took a lot deaths to turn your invasion aside but we have done it."

He gestured for one of the Lords he didn't recognise to be brought forwards. The man was pushed down onto his knees,

"I will not tolerate a threat to my land and my people."

The edge of Red Rain was as sharp as that of Ice. Jon raised the sword and brought it down smoothly, cutting the Lord's head from his shoulders in a single swipe. The man's head rolled and the other lords attempted to escape before being restrained again. Jon pointed the bloody blade at Euron and then Rodrik,

"Those two live, kill the others."

Jon watched, feeling incredibly detached, as his men opened the throats of the remaining Lords. The men were dying like animals but Jon couldn't bring himself to care. As far as he was concerned, they were animals. All they wanted to do was raid, rape and steal. They were worse than animals in many regards so maybe this was a mercy? He was born to the Starks however, so he was above ever feeding prisoners to the flames. Lucky for the Ironborn that he had greater standards than they had because he didn't doubt that they would kill him and his men in the worst of ways if they were given half the chance.

Jon sighed a little bit before gesturing for Rodrik the Reader to be brought over to him. Jon pushed the man back down into a seat at the table, snatching the driftwood crown from Euron's head as he passed the restrained king. He sat down across from Rodrik, staring at the man. He was older than Jon had expected but not old enough not to still be a strong warrior at the head of an army or fleet. And he seemed to be doing a decent job at keeping calm as well - it would seem that his reputation for having a level head was well-founded. Jon continued to stare at the older man for a few, long, moments, before tossing the driftwood crown across the table. Rodrik caught the crown with a touch of trepidation, as if thinking that it were a snake that would rear up and bite him,

"What am I to make of this Ser Jon Whitewolf?"

A fair question, a safe question. He just smiled a little bit as he thought about it for a moment, wanting to choose his words carefully. If this went the way he wanted it to then Rodrik Harlaw and his line would become the greatest House of the Iron Islands - and likely would remember the exact moment that they were elevated with the deaths of their peers. He kept the small smile,

"The Greyjoy's will never rise again. The other great houses of the islands are now leaderless." he paused for a moment, "I'm presenting you with a chance, Lord Harlaw. You will not be a King, you will bow to King Robert. But you will occupy the lofty height that House Greyjoy spat upon in their insane quest for glory."

Rodrik was silent but Euron was not. The man roared in rage and attempted to reach Jon, despite his injuries and the two men now holding him back. Jon endured the sounds of threats and insinuations against the mother he had never known for a few moments before nodding to one of the knights who had been securing the room,

"Tristain?" the knight paused, turning to Jon, "Your village was in the Westerlands… before Euron's raiders destroyed it, right?"

A tense nod from the knight,

"Tristain… if Euron Greyjoy opened his mouth again, you have my permission to strike him as hard as you like."

Euron seemed to ignore this threat but Tristain's eyes lit up slightly. Jon turned back to Rodrik, not seeing the blow that Tristain landed across Euron's face but able to hear the impact of fist against face and then body against floor. Rodrik had seen it and winced but Jon just continued staring across the table at the other man,

"Lord Harlaw." Jon yanked the man's attention back from the display of violence, "We are under time constraints here, my lord. It's rather simple - with very few strings attached. You ascend to the highest level of leadership in the Iron Islands. You may need to deal with rebellions from within but I suppose that will be you paying the Iron Price for this deal. Other than that, you need only swear to King Robert as your liege."

The sound of meaty thuds and groans of pain continued over where Jon knew Euron and Tristain were. He avoided looking that way as it might be considered a sign of weakness on his side, even though Rodrik could see it happening clearly from where he was sitting. Jon didn't say anything, he just continued to look at Rodrik with the same, small and rather blank, smile. He was expectant but he wasn't trying to rush the man - he didn't need to. Tristain was doing his best to make Euron's face resemble a destroyed tomato within full view of Rodrik so there was pressure without Jon himself having to lift a finger.

In the end, the result was something that Jon had pictured happening on his way here, while he had been mulling over the plan itself.

Rodrik took one last look at Euron's prone form before taking hold of the driftwood crown in both hands and twisting, snapping the wooden crown in two. Jon waited and Rodrik took a deep breath before nodding once,

"I pledge myself to King Robert Baratheon."

Thank the gods… Jon didn't really have a backup ruler in mind of the Iron Islands if Rodrik had proven to be difficult. He wouldn't have minded leaving the region in a constant civil war but it would have further destabilised the Kingdom, something he was keen to avoid. Now he would go back to King Robert, having disobeyed him, with a war with the Iron Islands ended, a rebellious house destroyed and a replacement ruler for the region, swearing loyalty to him and his heirs.

Good enough to keep his head attached to his shoulders? Hopefully.

The simple fact was that, as the commander of a knightly order, the law was a little bit murky. Definitely when compared to the laws between Lords and their King. He was honour-bound to fulfil his Order's purpose at every turn, regardless of the wishes of others. It was never stated that meant he could circumvent the wishes of the King but it was never stated as an exception either. He really hoped he wouldn't have to use that as a defence however - it was weaker than a Maester's paper.

But now he had something to present to the King that might weigh against the lives of himself and his men.

With the agreement now sealed, Jon nodded to Rodrik before rising from his seat. He waved a hand and a reluctant Tristain removed himself from where he had been raining blows down upon Euron's body, having moved on from his face after blood had covered most of it. Jon nodded and the two men assigned to restraint Euron before grabbed him under the arms, dragging him along as Jon led them out to a balcony that looked out over the island of Pyke, a clear view of Lordsport in the distance.

Euron was held upright so that he could see over the island that had been his direct dominion since he had killed his brother. Jon took a scrap of cloth and wiped the majority of the blood from the once-king's face. He ignored the blood that Euron spat at him as he tossed the cloth off the edge of the high balcony they were on. He sighed a little bit as he looked over the island,

"I can see why you people raid." he admitted with a small scowl, "You've got yourself an ugly little island. Fucking gulls are ashamed of this place. Not sure why you thought that meant that you could occupy any significant stretch of The North. Why was that again?"

He waited while Euron ran through a gauntlet of insults. Really? This was the 'most dangerous Greyjoy? All Jon could see was a bitter man who had been taken hostage rather easily and made to escape with only the use of sharp words. It took a bit before the deposed King decided that he didn't actually have any other choice but to answer with some semblance of civility,

"My brother." he spat angrily, "Balon wanted revenge against the Starks and saw his whelp son's escape, combined with the invasion of the Stormlands, as a perfect opportunity."

Jon knew it would have been Balon's decision to invade, not Euron's. But he wasn't gullible enough to believe that Euron Greyjoy, one of the 'most dangerous men in the known world', wouldn't have sounded the war-drum. Especially since he was a 'king' struggling to prove himself and his rule. Jon nodded,

"So your brother went to war. But you would have done the same." he glanced at the broken man, "You would have called your raiders to war, would you not, Euron Greyjoy?"

Silence would have been damning enough but Euron just laughed,

"Of course I would, boy." he shook his head, "You wouldn't understand… I was a King! I had to show my people that I was the one to follow or they would have stabbed me in the back! I make no apologies for my plans to continue the war. I make no apologies for anything… so take me to the Fat King and the show-trial can begin."

Jon paused for a moment before humming as he looked at Red Rain, still covered in blood. He nodded once to himself before growling as he stabbed Euron in the gut. The Ironborn screamed in pain as Jon made sure to move the steel around in his guts before pulling it free. Euron's stomach and intestines followed the sword out the gaping wound. Almost immediately the stench was incredible, his gut and bowels having been butchered by the Valyrian steel.

Euron groaned in pain, trying to stuff his guts back inside with a futile attempt to save his pathetic life. The two men holding Euron up dropped him and went back inside. Jon stayed there with the man as his insides continued to pulse blood all over the floor of the balcony. He reached down, grabbing the older man by the hair and lifting him up until he could see over the balcony, despite the agony and how much it hampered the chances of keeping the Ironborn's insides… well, in. He pointed the man's head to look down at the castle of Pyke itself,

"You and yours invaded The North. I am sentencing you for your crimes against The North and its people." he told Euron as they both watched two wagons leaving the castle with unnatural haste, "Those were my men. And this… is the sentence for the Greyjoys."

Almost on cue, some of the smaller buildings at the first tower of Pyke began to burn, fire licking through the windows, obviously coming from inside. The second keep as well caught fire, smoke beginning to billow from the windows as the shouts of alarm began to reach them. The combination of oil and alcohol meant that they had created fire that sprang up quickly and was resistant to being put out with water as well. As Euron watched his castle catch fire, Jon only had eyes for the orange glow that was beginning to consume Lordsport in the distance. He moved Euron's head by his grip on the man's hair,

"Your castle will burn to the ground. Your port will be cinders. The people who follow you will be naught be ash on the wind!" he threw the man backwards, noting that the once proud Greyjoy barely reacted, his strength draining from the gaping wound in his gut, "The world fears the revenge of a Lannister because of Tywin Lannister's actions against the lords of Castamere. But before that, before the infamous lion had his day, the Kingdoms knew of the rage of the Direwolf… the Hour of the Wolf. The Hungry Wolf. Well you and yours will be the example of what happens to people who cross The North now."

If his family, and their home, was to be safe, he had to convince the rest of Westeros that The North was something that should not be crossed. Something that was dangerous to cross. And if he had to sacrifice what remained of his innocence to do so then he was more than happy to pay that price. He pressed the point of his new sword to Euron's throat and slowly pushed down, remaining impassive as the man slowly choked and spluttered as the steel inched into his flesh. Withdrawing the sword, he left Euron on the balcony, gutless and gasping through a slit throat. He wiped his new sword clean on the cloak of one of the dead lords.

A rhythmic banging against the throne room doors told Jon that the Ironborn had figured out that someone had come here to kill their king. Rodrik Harlaw was out cold, having been smacked over the back of the head by one of Jon's men. It would look bad if the man had been the only one without injury after all - it would look like he was in on the attack when he had really been as surprised as everyone else.

And he was no good to the plan dead.

Edric motioned for Jon to join him, which he did, sheathing his new sword at his side, his old one passed to a squire who had come with them. Generosity cost nothing after all. An odd time to remember one of Catelyn Stark's half-heard 'pearls of wisdom', when his murderous plan was done and the enemy was knocking at the gate. Strange but not enough to really remark on. He waited patiently as Edric tapped at the floor space behind the sea stone throne.

Asha Greyjoy had had another visit from Domeric before they had left for Pyke and had revealed something that was rather fortunate for Jon and his crew. There was a trap door built behind the throne, wood covered in a thin layer of stone to match the same stone as the rest of the floor. Edric found the trap door exactly where it was said to be and the group quickly began to rush down the ladder. Jon made sure he was the last one, chuckling lightly as the banging continued, the door not looking any worse for wear as he stepped down onto the ladder, closing the trapdoor and jamming it closed with a dagger from his belt.

The secret escape was pitch black but with all of the men on the same ladder it was easy to tell exactly where you were. After all, when you stepped on someone's fingers they tended to let you know about it. It didn't take all that long before they reached the bottom of the secret escape, a cave hidden in the side of the pillar of rock where Pyke's furthest keep stood upon. Complete with two row boats for escape.

Thank you Asha Greyjoy and thank you Domeric Bolton.

He reminded himself to get Domeric something nice for putting up with all the 'near torture' that he had had the man put the young Ironborn woman under. And for agreeing to be part of this plan actually - he had thought Domeric was going to be too straight laced to agree to this plan. How odd a thought that was. A man of the Stark line wondering if the path of his choosing was too dark for the man of the Bolton line. Though he supposed stranger things had happened. Either way, he would have to get his friend something nice, they'd hardly be gliding silently along the coast, enjoying the sight of Pyke in flames, if it hadn't been for Domeric.

Jon took a turn at rowing the boat, matching pace with his men as they rowed their little boats carefully along the coast.

They were going to be rowing into Lordsport, where their own ships were sure to be making sure no other ship survived, including rowboats. Thankfully the plan was known to all aboard the ships, from the sell-sail captains to each of the rowers. They would be recognised even if the whole thing had gone to shit.

And that was, predictably, when Jon noticed that things had gone to shit as far as the plan was concerned.

The sell-sails ships were out in the bay, blocking it as was agreed, but the rowboats that were supposed to bring their men back were up near the Ironborn ships. Too close it would seem, because the burning Ironborn longships had spread the flames to the rowboats the men were supposed to use to get back to the longships. Instead of the quick escape, a pitched battle was taking place on the docks of Lordsport, Jon's men outnumbered even with most of the Ironborn focusing on stopping the inferno that was Lordsport.

Jon didn't hesitate,

"To the docks!"

The men hesitated for a mere second before obeying his command, the two rowboats moving away from their longships to head for the dock. Jon was here to do something that ran against his father's moral code but he had not, and would not, forsake his father's teachings completely. And his father had taught him, from a young age, that the lone wolf died and the pack survived. And he would be damned if he was going to knowingly leave some of his friends, his pack, to die on this gods forsaken little speck of an island.

Jon stood in the middle of the rowboat, sword already drawn,

"Come on lads!" he roared to the other occupants of the rowboats, "Let's get our boys home!"

The rowboats landed on the edge of the docks and Jon was the first man to jump from the boats up onto the docks. Quickly enough many of the men came swarming off the rowboats as well, leaving a bare minimum number of rowers to take the wounded that we being helped onto the boats by some of the men Jon had left Lancel with. Lancel himself was at the front, as Jon expected, battling two Ironborn at once, and a wiry bastard with a dagger and a bigger man with what looked like a blacksmith's hammer. Jon sounded the charge and the fresher troops surged into the fight. Jon himself stabbed the wiry man through the armpit, piercing his heart as Lancel caught the bigger man's throat. Reaching out, Jon grabbed Lancel by the shoulder, having to shout over the din of pitched battle,

"Gather your men and get them to the boats!" he commanded his friend even as he ducked to avoid a swipe with an axe, stabbing a man clean through the chest with ease due to his new sword. He kicked the corpse away, "The wounded should have been delivered - next load of rowboats is your people!"

He clashed with another Ironborn, blocking the man's powerful slash from above with a bastard sword. The man had size and strength on Jon but Lancel's sword slicing through the man's hamstrings meant that Jon had the advantage of not being crippled. The Ironborn fell to one knee and Jon shoved his sword down through the gap between the man's shoulder and neck, plunging his sword into his heart and lung before withdrawing. Lancel tapped his armour, getting his attention,

"Harrion went back into town!" he shouted to Jon, "He lost the Karblade!"

The Karblade.

Harrion had mentioned that his father, Lord Karstark, had been searching far and wide for a family blade. A sword that would be the prize of his heirs and their heirs for generations to come. It was to be their answer to the Stark family blade, Ice. A blade that was owned only by the heirs and lords of Karhold. Valyrian steel was hard to come by but Harrion had done his best to save up every coin he could and had, in conjunction with his father, purchased the biggest Valyrian steel weapon they could afford to purchase, without causing hardship for their House and the people of Karhold.

Harrion was fucking proud of the sharp little dagger he had managed to buy.

Any amount of Valyrian steel owned by a family was impressive but it was still quite strange to see such a large man so impressed by such a small slither of Valyrian steel. But the man had practiced with battling with it in his off hand with his sword in his strong hand. It was a deadly little combo so no one had dared to mock the large northerner for being so happily proud of his little knife.

But gods damn it if that little dagger wasn't going to get his friend fucking killed! He nodded once to Lancel in understanding as the Lannister pointed to one of the main streets from the docks. That's where his wayward friend had gone apparently. Jon took off in the same direction, using the chaos of the burning building, burning bodies, burning people and battle to his advantage, managing to skirt around the edges of the battle before making his way down the main street that Lancel had indicated. The street was mostly full of men trying to combat the fires, all of whom ignored Jon as they were too thoroughly engrossed in their battle with the flames.

He ran through the street, bloody sword in hand, but he couldn't see Harrion anywhere. Deciding that he didn't care about being known anymore, Jon cupped a hand to his face,

"Harrion!" he called loudly, catching a few stares from the Ironborn fighting the fires, "Harrion!"

No answer but the crackling of the wood and its embers and the efforts of the Ironborn to save their homes. He was about to move on when he heard a very faint sound. It was a sound barely above the noise made by the embers but it was a sound that caught Jon's attention. He paused, entirely still to better hear the noise. His eyes widened slightly as he recognised it as a very low voice. Following the sound, he ran round the side of one of the collapsed buildings before stopping dead in his tracks.

Harrion Karstark lay upon the ground, blood pooled around him. His left leg had been crushed by a falling beam of wood with such savagery that the leg below the knee was just gone, leaving only a thickly bleeding stump. Jon sheathed his sword numbly as he approached. His friend had managed to drag himself away from the beam that had crippled him, leaving a trail of thick blood visible even in the low light of the alley they were in.

His leg was still back over the other side of the alley.

And there, clutched in the big man's hand, was the Karblade. The great big northern brute with his little special knife… Jon couldn't help but think that even as he fell to his knees by his friend's side. Harrion had his eyes closed, his face covered in sweat and grime from having crawling his way across the alley. Jon placed a hand on his friend's shoulder and Harrion opened his eyes, looking panicked for a moment before he noticed who had actually found him. A weak, watery, chuckle,

"Jon… I got killed by a fucking building."

Jon couldn't help it - he laughed even as he choked a little bit as he looked down at the bloody mess that was his friend. He took a deep breath even as Harrion's eyes seemed to droop. Jon shook his friend's should lightly,

"Hey, come on now Harrion… let's get you to Sam."

Harrion just snorted in amusement, making no attempt to help as Jon tried to manoeuvre his friend into a position in which he could carry the larger man. He tried to ignore his friend's scepticism, getting one arm around his shoulders and holding the other man by his waist to lift him up to his feet… well… foot. Harrion cried out in pain and fell slightly, leaving Jon to heave with all his might until his friend was leaning against him heavily, his one surviving foot on the ground.

They reached the end of the alleyway, Jon half dragging Harrion along with him, before Harrion fell against Jon at an awkward angle. Harrion tumbled to the ground, screaming in agony as his bleeding stump impacted the ground wrong. Jon swore as he hurried to pick Harrion up again. The shouts of rather vengeful-sounding Ironborn could be heard closing in and Jon wasn't in any mood to fight them off over his rapidly dying friend,

"Sorry about this Harrion…"

Ignoring the sounds of pain from his friend, Jon bodily picked the larger man up with a grunt of exertion, lifting him above his head before setting him down across his shoulders. One hand gripped Harrion's arm while the other gripped the remaining leg. He adjusted the weight slightly before he set off as fast as he could down the street. Harrion was groaning and grunting with pain with each step and the blood was flowing freely down Jon's back now. It was beginning to look desperate and Jon was reasonably sure that no one was actively chasing them yet.

They reached the edge of the docks and Jon brought the two of them to a dead stop, immediately doing his best to take cover behind a half-collapsed wall.

The Ironborn had figured out that the people who had attacked them had come from the ocean and would be anxious to actually return to their own home and so had shown up in force to attempt to drive Jon's men back into the sea. For their part, Jon's men were showing signs of tiring, now reduced to protecting only one pier of the dock, which had a rowboat ready to go. With such a narrow gap to defend however, Jon's men were able to stand against the clearly superior numbers of the Ironborn knocking at them, both sides taking shots at each other with arrows.

Honestly, Jon was surprised, but happy, that his men had actually decided to wait for him and Harrion rather than just immediately making for the open seas. Either they had all decided to wait for him or one of his officers had ordered them to hold their ground until they either got confirmation of him and Harrion or it was too costly to stay. It looked like it was about to tip over into being too costly almost any minute now. Jon tightened his grip on Harrion,

"We can make it Harrion, we break through their lines by surprise and we're on the rowboat back to the longship, back to where Sam will be waiting."

There was no reply, which was worrying.

He didn't have time to waste waiting for a key opening then. Jon took a deep breath before breaking cover, charging forwards as fast as his legs could carry him, when factoring in his heavy plate armour and the weight on his shoulders. Actually, judging by the strain on his muscles right now, he might actually have been pushing harder than he should actually be capable of running with all that weight. Either way, he knew that he wasn't exactly going to be quiet either.

Some of the Ironborn spotted him, and actually moved out of his way slightly. It was almost as if they didn't believe that any of the attackers would be stupid enough to run through their lines to reach their comrades. And so, because that would be too stupid, it was likely they thought he was one of their own, charging forwards with something heavy slung over his back, ready to be brought against their foes like some kind of bludgeon. It took a few precious moments before the Ironborn managed to realise that he wasn't one of them, that he was actually rushing through them to reach the boats brought by the invaders.

Thankfully for Jon, by the time they had figured that out he was already free of their ranks, now into the no-man's land between the two forces, enforced by the accuracy of the archers on both sides. Edric was stood with one foot in the rowboat, gesturing frantically for Jon to hurry up.

Before Jon could find the energy to try and push himself more, a burning pain came from his lower back, causing him to stumble and cry out in pain. Harrion, who had been silent for a while, cried out in pain as well. Arrows? Yes… it had to be arrows. Jon gritted his teeth, forcing himself forwards, powering through the pain until him and Harrion half-stepped and half-fell into the rowboat. Edric shouted orders for the rowers to begin even as the last of the men stepped aboard, the Ironborn now surging after them down the length of the pier.

Grabbing one of the shields from the deck of the rowboat, Jon lifted it up to cover Harrion's body. Not a second too soon it turned out as the familiar feeling of arrows hitting the hard wood of the shield sounded not moments later. The rowers did their absolute best as Jon and others held their shields high to block the rain of arrows the surviving Ironborn sent their way.

It felt like an age to Jon but they were soon alongside the Iron Victory. He tossed the shield to the waves and stood, lifting Harrion with another grunt of exertion, his arms feeling like lead weights as he held the wounded man up for the sailors to pull him up. Ignoring the lingering pain of the arrow in his lower back (not too bad, likely had only punched through a weak spot in the plate armour more by luck than judgement and likely not very deep), Jon hauled himself up onto the deck of Victarion Greyjoy's old flagship,

"Bandages! Clothe! Clothing! Anything and everything! Bring it to me!" he commanded, stealing a cloak from the sailor closest to him, kneeling down when Harrion was laid out. He pressed the cloak against the stump, the blood soaking it through in seconds. But still, he kept up the pressure and tried to stop the bleeding as best he could, "SAM! Sam get over here!"

Jon scrambled to replace the cloak with another piece of cloth that had been pushed his way, ignoring how Edric shook his shoulder,

"Jon…"

He growled at his squire,

"Not now Ned!" he barked, "Get me some potato wine! And where in the SEVEN FUCKING HELLS IS SAM?!"

Edric could not seem to bring himself to stop shaking his damn shoulder! Jon ignored it as best as he could as he did his best to hold the blood inside Harrion. Edric yanked hard on Jon's shoulder, spinning him around to face him as he pointed further up the ship. Jon growled, following his squire's directions and hoping he would see the bulk of Samwell Tarly hurrying to help.

He stopped, frozen, as he saw the arrow.

It was clearly a cheap arrow, both wood and feather looked of terrible quality, but it had done its job. During the last mad dash to the boat, when they had broken through the Ironborn ranks… Jon had felt his own arrow hit and heard Harrion's pain as his own had landed. But no, it had been more than that. The arrow was lodged in the side of Harrion's neck, not a blow that was recovered from.

The glassy eyes of his friend, staring blankly down at him, confirmed it in one horrible second. Jon's hands shook slightly as he looked down at them, coated in the blood of his dead friend. Tearing his gaze from his own bloodied hands, Jon fell backwards, sitting down against the side of the ship as he locked gazes with the corpse that had been one of his closest friends not hours before.

He had volunteered to come.

But then… of course he had. Harrion Karstark wasn't the kind of man to let his friends walk headlong into danger, not unless he was right there beside them. And, blinded as he was by hatred and purpose, Jon had led his true friend into the breach and this time, unlike every other time, Harrion didn't get to come back to The North. Was it Jon's fault that Harrion was dead? Probably.

And the worst part? The part that had Jon mutely staring in despair as his friend's corpse was dragged away to be kept with the other 'supplies'?

The worst part was that when he thought about his idea, his great plan to take revenge against the Ironborn, the plan that had no doubt gutted the already greatly diminished membership of his order and stolen the lives of one of his closest friend? He still couldn't see it as anything but necessary. His friend was dead and many of his men too.

And all Jon could think was that he would do it all again if given the chance… just to watch Pyke burn.


	21. Chapter 21

**I am terribly sorry for the delay, wedding planning has escalated. Please enjoy.**

Ashes

To be honest he hadn't known what to expect when he returned to the mainland.

He hadn't officially gone against the rulings of the King - the King had ruled that no army of Westeros would invade the Iron Islands. But Jon had crossed the sea with a knightly order whose numbers were low enough that they couldn't very well be considered an army in size or name any longer. When it came to Kings however, the laws of the land and the records of what decisions had been made previously were… fluid.

If the King wanted to say one day that there would be no invasion and the next day curse out his Lords for not invading then it was his prerogative. The Royal Prerogative as it was known - the right to change your mind at the drop of a fucking hat and have everyone in the Seven Kingdoms rush to change their position on that particular issue. In the case of the Fat King, Jon wouldn't be surprised if he changed his mind about things because he wanted to watch the proud Lords struggle to turn themselves around until they were following his new wishes.

A part of him had banked on the idea that the Fat King, notorious for his warmongering attitude, would approve of his actions. That the King would do that big, boisterous, laugh of his and declare that Jon had acted exactly as he would have done when he was younger. Though Jon knew he had acted with far more forethought than the Fat King had likely ever used in his entire life.

But, alas, it was not to be.

Their ship had been intercepted by some ships from Seaguard and escorted to the port city with all haste. The armies of the North and the Fat King's host had moved to Seaguard during their absence - allowing Jon a chance to return Harrion's bones to his father, Lord Karstark, before the King's men arrived to take him away.

Seeing such a proud man brought low, wailing for his lost son, had made Jon question, once again, what he had done. Was it really worth it? There would be more fathers like Lord Karstark, mothers and siblings too. He hadn't lost as many men as he had first thought but still. There were beyond dozens of young men who would never again feel the touch of Westeros beneath their feet, would never be brought back to rest with their ancestors.

He very much doubted the Ironborn would be respectful with their bones.

He hadn't had chance to stay and face either the wrath or gratitude of Lord Karstark - the King's men had arrived pretty quickly and taken him into their custody. Jon had already given Red Rain to Lancel to take care of so they didn't have to confiscate any weapons from him, though Jon did have to remind his men to stand down as many had reached for weapons upon seeing their commander being detained.

That he inspired such loyalty in his men touched Jon.

But all of that had been hours ago now.

For the past few hours he had been here, on his knees, in the centre of the Mallister's great hall, facing the empty head table. Along the walls the Baratheon and Lannister guardsmen stood ready, two of them stood directly behind him as well. Not as if he could have escaped without those two behind him of course, his hands were locked together in manacles and they, in turn, were connected to a metal ring set in the stone of the floor. He was chained to the floor, incapable to doing anything more than standing.

Not that he'd be able to of course.

The purpose of the two guards behind him seemed to be to keep him knelt there on the cold stone, to keep him showing the proper deference to those who would judge him no doubt. It wasn't comfortable that was for certain - he was still in the bloodied armour of Victarion Greyjoy after all, only the helm missing from the ensemble. He honestly had expected a servant to be made to clean his armour enough to not offend the noses of those who would judge him.

He was, after all, hot, sweaty and covered in the stinking blood and viscera of many different men.

Or, could be, that the judges wanted him to remain as he had been when they'd arrested him at the docks? To remind any of those who would have been inclined to be lenient, just what kind of a man he was - a man who had spilt more than his fair share of blood. Wrongfully, depending who you asked. Or maybe he was just over thinking this whole thing? He could hardly do anything else after all.

They couldn't be taking this long to actually get here now could they? Whomever was judging him would have to be higher in station than him. As a knight that was quite a lot of people but as the commander of a knightly order, that list was narrowed down to higher Lords and royalty. At the end of the day the only people he actually had to answer to were the Lord Paramount of the region he operated within and the royal family. So that left his father, Prince Stannis, Prince Renly, Prince Joffrey, Prince Tommen, Princess Marcella, Queen Cersei or King Robert.

The youngest prince and the princess were out, neither had any kind of training in matters such as these and were currently back in King's Landing. Same with the Queen as far as Jon was aware. Prince Stannis was off somewhere with the Royal Fleet, as part of his role as Master of Ships. Prince Renly was… actually he had no idea where Renly Baratheon was, though the jokes around the camp had been that he was 'improving relations' with Highgarden.

Somehow Jon didn't see Margery being interested in the rather inoffensive Prince.

So that left King Robert himself, Prince Joffrey and Lord Eddard Stark. He would like to say that he doubted that his own father would be called upon to judge him but he honestly didn't. While some men might choose their family over their honour and duty, he was less certain that his father would be one of those men. He was honourable, almost to a fault, and had expressed disappointment with Jon's plan from the start. Likely he would be even more disappointed now that Jon had gone behind the backs of his Lord and father to do as he willed regardless of his opinion.

One of the side doors behind the main table opened and Jon's immediately didn't feel quite so carefree about this whole thing. Rather than one of the remaining three people he had believed could judge him, all three of them were present. King Robert, wearing a thunderous expression, took the centre of the table with a vaguely amused-looking Prince Joffrey taking the seat immediately to his right. Jon was struck, for a moment, by the similarities between Joffrey and his uncle, the Kingslayer, but he supposed it made sense, with the Queen being the twin of the Kingslayer.

And there was his own father, sitting to the left of the King with perhaps the sternest expression Jon had ever seen on his face before.

Looked like his father had not revised his opinion about Jon's plan to safeguard the coast of the North with the slaughter of the Ironborn threat. Not that he honestly expected his father to have changed his opinion on the subject - to Eddard Stark, Jon's choice was without honour because it was largely indiscriminate in who died. Jon wasn't naive or hopeful enough to say that no babes in swaddling had died in the fires his men had started. He had weighed up the sacrifice of such lives with the continued safety of his family and their people and had decided that their lives were an acceptable cost for such a goal.

He remained secure in that decision even while staring across the hall at the disappointed gaze of his honourable father, even if it did make him feel almost unclean. Remembering himself, however he bowed his head to the King and the Prince. One of the guards made an almost silent sound of disappointment - perhaps he had been hoping he'd be able to hit Jon to remind him of his manners? Such brutes the Baratheon's kept in their guard.

The Fat King was finally sat, surprisingly without a scrap of food on the table. Of course his squire immediately raced forwards with a bottle of wine, filling the massive goblet of the King and the small glass of the Prince. Lord Stark took a glass of watered down wine rather than the full strength of the drink. Seemed his father was taking this very seriously - he never drank full wine when he was going to pass judgement after all.

Hopefully today wouldn't end with an ironwood stump and a flash of a Valyrian steel sword.

There was silence as the King glared down at him, the Prince looked oh-so-amused and his father looked to be disappointed. If they were hoping to cow him with such looks they would be incredibly disappointed - he was here because he chose to be after all. It would have been rather easy to escape Westeros with the Iron Victory, to escape and become a sell-sword or a pirate or just go live with the natives in the far off lands across the sunset sea. Whatever he wanted.

But instead he had come back to Westeros, because he truly believed that what he had done had been for the best. Not best for the Iron Islanders, of course, but best for the Seven Kingdoms to be sure. He would argue that point for as long as they stood against him in this matter. The King, as was proper, was the one to actually start the proceedings,

"Ser Jon Whitewolf… you stand accused of treason and murder." he declared in a loud bellow of a shout, "How do you plead?"

Really? So they were going down the route where he was some kind of rogue who had attacked some innocents while acting against the clear instructions of the King? He straightened slightly but remained on his knees, lest the guards behind him feel the need to get a few hits in to make him more likely to stay knelt,

"Not guilty your Grace." he declared clearly, "I would reason that the Ironborn were the ones committing treason, flaunting your own laws against slavery and piracy. As such actions were aimed at the North, my order acted against treasonous lords and warriors to defend the North, as is our charge."

No one looked surprised that he had denied the charge of treason. Not even the two members of the Kingsguard who had arrived. One of them was the Kingslayer but the other Jon didn't recognise with his helm on - Jaime Lannister never seemed to wear his own helm so he was easily recognised. Jon returned his attention to his judges, not the men who had taken up positions behind the King to protect him.

"You took this action without the blessing of the King or the Lord Paramount of the region your order operates within."

That was Jon's father, cutting to the meat of the issue as he was want to do.

"Do you deny that you undertook these actions without permission from a higher lord, Ser?"

And, as he was also want to do, he asked the better questions. Because Jon had no real defence against that. He had indeed acted without the permission of either of the two parties that he answered directly to. Not enough to be treasonous on its own but enough to be damning to be certain and, if the King wanted to, that could be considered treason in itself. No one ever said the King's rulings had to be fair.

Or even logical.

"I do not deny this." he admitted, trying to remain calm, "I acted in what I believed to be the best interests of the Kingdoms as a whole and for the North. Though I did not receive instructions to attack the Ironborn, I received no orders to avoid battle with them. It was my understanding that the King had ruled that the King's own host, and the Northern armies, were not to invade the Iron Islands."

There was an explosion of movement from the King and Jon had to move slightly to the left to avoid the large goblet that had been swept from the table in the King's rage. He received an armoured kick to the side from one of the guards behind him for the sudden movement but managed to focus himself on the King himself. Idly, he noted the squire appeared to be rather used to these outbursts because another goblet was quietly placed in front of the King even as he thundered down the hall at Jon,

"You stupid cunt! I said no invasion of the Iron Islands - that includes fucking everybody!"

Ah the Fat King was as eloquent in his speech as ever it would seem. But it seemed that burst of anger was enough for now because he was now sat back down, taking huge mouthfuls of his wine. No doubt he thought the alcohol would calm him down… or he simply didn't care that it would make him into an even bigger fool than he had been before. Jon moved to kneel properly again, ignoring the kick the guard had given him,

"With all respect your Grace, I made no invasion." he argued back, "I made a raid against those who had attacked the North. There was no attempt to hold territory or to ensure their obedience - it was an attack undertaken in revenge for their failed invasion, done in line with the charge of my order."

The anger was more contained from the King but it was still palpable. Why was he doing this? Because he couldn't afford to just fold on an issue like this. The attack had been him upholding the very principle his order was founded on, if the King wanted to complain when that principle didn't suit him then it was his responsibility, his duty, to stand for that principle against any form of opposition. The King turned to discuss something in quieter tones with Jon's father and Prince Joffrey took the chance to speak for the first time,

"And what did you do when you arrived at Pyke, Ser Whitewolf?" he asked, his voice a drawling Southern accent that made Jon think of something slimy, "What did you do in retaliation for the Ironborn's attack of the North?"

Despite the Prince seemingly taking the reins of the judgement, both the King and Jon's father seemed to be rather interested in the answer. Strange… it seemed that news of his actions had yet to reach the mainland in its entirety. He paused for a moment. If the news so far said only that he had attacked, he could use that as a way to get leniency for his 'crimes' for he was sure to be more harshly punished for his actual actions. But if the lie was found, and it would be, then it would just mean a far worse future punishment.

"I judged that the main threat to the North was invasion and raiding by the Ironborn. With only a limited number of men and material, I needed to do as much damage as possible before escaping. To that end, I targeted House Greyjoy. They held the Ironborn together; without them the infighting would mean there would be no united Ironborn threat to any of the Kingdoms." he explained before taking a deep breath and ploughing onwards, "With that in mind I infiltrated the castle of Pyke during a council of the Ironborn lords… I put the Lords of the Ironborn to the sword."

At this point his father was making noises of disgust and protest but Jon wasn't finished,

"Baelon Greyjoy was already dead, Victarion Greyjoy I killed myself and the heirs to the 'sea stone throne' are held by your Grace. Euron Greyjoy took his 'throne'." that seemed to silence the Lord Stark for a moment before Jon continued, "I executed the man who styled himself a king, your Grace. I then proceeded to burn both the castle and port town of Pyke to the ground."

Jon's father looked… well it was a combination actually. But he was definitely seeing some strong emotions on his usually stoic face. Including disappointment, fear, disgust and sadness. It was… it was sobering, honestly. His father thought him some kind of monster because of the actions he had taken to protect their family and the people his family watched over as Lords of the North. The way his father looked at him, it was as if he was his worst, most sickening, enemy. It was not the way a father looked at a son.

The King seemed both annoyed and somehow pleased with the actions taken - and why wouldn't he? Jon had done something 'terrible' which had secured the man's rule in the area, weakened the islands in the event of any future rebellions and none of it would have any backlash against him because everyone would know that Ser Jon Whitewolf and his order had committed the 'crimes'. While he had ignored the spirit of the King's commands, it would work out for the King regardless.

As for the Prince… well, Jon didn't like the way his eyes seemed to be sparkling at the mention of all the death Jon had brought down onto the Ironborn for their transgressions. The King and Lord Stark moved closer together again to discuss what had been presented but Jon didn't pay much attention - he already had some idea about how this trial was going. His father would rule to punish him, the Prince was likely here to observe only and the King would push for a punishment due to the fact that Jon had earned his anger.

So it would come down to what Jon had been dreading.

The King waved his father away before standing. Jon remained knelt on the floor, head bowed as he waited for the judgement. There was a pause before the King began the declaration - this was Jon's last chance so he seized it,

"I demand trial by combat."

There was utter silence at his declaration. Jon looked up at the head table to see that the King looked mildly intrigued, the Prince excited and his father looked to still be feeling exactly the same as before. Well that stung but Jon wasn't about to let himself be taken off at the neck for actions taken to defend their family,

"I have the right to demand trial by combat before any verdict is given. As no verdict is given, I demand trial by combat."

The repetition seemed to be enough for the King to decide what to do in this situation. Not that he really had much choice. Trial by combat was an institution older than the Iron Throne by centuries, it was such an ingrained part of the culture of Westeros that no King, save the Mad King, had ever ignored a man's right to do battle in the sight of the Gods to be absolved of his crimes.

Why the skill to end another human being's life really meant the defendant was innocent he didn't know but Jon wasn't above using it for his own ends.

"You have the right." the King acknowledged with a grin, "Who will stand as champion for the Iron Throne?"

Jon had honestly expected the Fat King to attempt to challenge him himself but it seemed that some form of sense had prevailed. Jon knew the man had been a fearsome warrior in his heyday but that was about fifteen years in the past. The Kingsguard that Jon had not recognised stepped forwards,

"I, Ser Meryn Trant, will stand as champion for the Iron Throne!"

There was a pause where both the King and the Prince tried their damndest to 'subtly' look to the Kingslayer, who looked amused but did not offer to be the champion of the Iron Throne. Ser Meryn noticed this, no doubt, but didn't visibly react. Of course he was wearing his helm so he could be fuming and Jon wouldn't be any the wiser. With no one else volunteering to be champion of the Iron Throne, the King nodded to Ser Meryn, who moved to stand in front of the head table, hand resting on his sword.

Really?

They were going to have a trial by combat right here in the great hall of House Mallister? He wasn't going to back down but he did find it strange. He stood in place, the manacles still attached to the ground making it impossible to move any further than this,

"I will be my own champion." he declared, as literally everyone in the hall expected, no doubt. "I ask only that I be allowed to arm myself."

The two guards behind him began to unlock his manacles as the King nodded to the Kingslayer. Jon was freed just as the Lannister approached him with his sheathed longsword and dagger offered. Accepting it, Jon began to attach the weapons to his person while the Kingslayer took the opportunity to speak to him,

"Be careful there Ser Jon, that's a blade forged in Casterly Rock." he teased in his usual, amused, tone, "I doubt you've seen a blade it's like but do try to fight the urge to run off with it."

Jon was actually grateful for the distraction from both his father's feelings towards him and his trial by combat. Usually he would have been annoyed at the Kingslayer's flippant attitude but not today,

"Aye, shame they won't let me use the sword I managed to recover from Pyke." he admitted as he drew the longsword and swung it a few times to test the weight, "Red Rain would make this a tad unfair though. I suppose it's a good thing I left it with your cousin Lancel - I wouldn't want to have such an unfair advantage over Ser Meryn."

To his credit the Kingslayer appeared surprised for only a second or two before his amused expression returned. This time it was much more pronounced however as he stepped aside, now that both Jon and his fellow Kingsguard were armed and ready for battle. Ignoring the departure of the blonde man, Jon held the longsword in his right hand and the dagger in a reversed grip in his left. Ser Meryn held his own longsword in both hands in a surprisingly sloppy ready stance.

Was the Kingsguard not taking this seriously? Did he honestly think that Jon wouldn't be able to find the faults in his ready stance? They were numerous.

The King stood behind the table and waited for a moment. Jon chanced a look at the great table. His father was looking away - either not wanting to see his son in a battle to the death or too disgusted or disillusioned to actually look him in the eye. Either way, it had the same effect. The Prince seemed to be on the edge of his seat but he didn't blame him - this was more exciting than a trial of words after all. The King raised his hand,

"In the sight of the Old Gods and the New… let this trial by combat begin!"

Jon had returned his attention to Meryn Trant when the King had first begun speaking and it was a good thing too - the honourless little cur had started charging forwards before the King had even finished speaking. Catching the strong overhead swing on his own longsword, Jon deflected the blow away from himself while lashing out with the dagger in his off hand. The edge of the dagger glanced off the front of Ser Meryn's helmet, leaving a silver scar across the gold of the man's armour.

Showing his aggressive style of combat, Ser Meryn lashed out with a forward kick aimed as Jon's knee. Moving to the side in time, Jon jumped backwards slightly, bringing the dagger down at the exposed knee of the Kingsguard. He was quicker than he looked it seemed because he was able to avoid having his kneecap broken by the dagger's downward stab. The two of them took steps back from each other, disengaging after Ser Meryn's rather lack-lustre attack had failed utterly.

Jon didn't betray any emotion as Ser Meryn took the opportunity to tear his helmet from his head and throw it to the side. Trant seemed like the kind of fighter who would blame his poor performance on how his helmet 'blocked his sight' or some such rot. It did allow Jon to see the knight's face and he looked, honestly, like a slightly boiled pig squeezed into his golden armour.

After less than a minute or so of circling each other, Ser Meryn attacked once again, a wild but powerful slash of his sword… that Jon recognised coming at him before the sword was even swinging, allowing him to side step with ease, his own sword sweeping up to cut through the fingers of Ser Meryn's lead hand. Almost immediately the Kingsguard dropped his sword, his uninjured hand clamping over the bleeding stumps on instinct. Jon went in for the kill, spinning past Ser Meryn's attempt to grab him while cutting his right leg's tendon with a precise swing of the tip of the longsword. As Ser Meryn pitched to his side, Jon's borrowed dagger flashed out, finding itself at home stabbed through the other man's temple.

The Kingsguard member stilled in death and Jon withdrew the dagger, wiping it clean on Ser Meryn's cape before sheathing it. Done with his posturing, Jon looked up at the head table at the other end of the hall. The Prince was grinning like a loon and the King was currently taking a drink from his goblet but seemed to be in decent enough spirits. Of course the only person Jon had eyes for was his father, who was staring back at him with his best 'blank' expression, which somehow still managed to convey just how disgusted he was with Jon.

The King finished his giant mouthful of wine relatively quickly and slammed the goblet down with a resounding clang. Watching the King climb to his feet again, Jon was once again struck by just how sickeningly fat the King was - this was the man who's peace every man in this room was sworn to uphold. This was the man that his father would swear was like a brother to him? In the end, it didn't matter to Jon any more. He barely heard the Fat King declare that he was considered innocent before he handed the Kingslayer his weapons back and stormed out the great hall.

He didn't know for certain but he knew enough to draw some strong conclusions. His father would have let him be executed for treason by his friend because Jon had gone a step further than his father ever had in order to protect their family. Honour wouldn't protect their family from Ironborn raiders. Honour and duty wouldn't protect the innocence of Sansa and Arya, nor would they shield Bran and Rickon from harm. He had done what he had to do to protect his family and his father was ready to condemn him for the actions he had taken in the pursuit of keeping his promise.

Maybe his father had forgotten the vow he had made but Jon had not - could not - forget it.

And now, he realised, as he stepped out into the cold, sea air of Seaguard… it didn't matter that he had won the trial by combat. His father's perception of him was tainted now - he saw a murderer, a monster of some kind. He made a vow, long ago, to protect his family and had, more recently, charged himself and his order with the defence of the North from foes and threat. But his father would likely banish him. It didn't matter that he was innocent in the eyes of the Gods, Eddard Stark would never suffer a 'dishonourable' man to be commander of an honourable order of knights.

So where did that leave him, the son of Eddard Stark that had forsaken honour in the name of protecting his family and people?


	22. Chapter 22

**AN: Please enjoy.**

Exile

Officially speaking, Jon was due no punishment.

He had won the trial by combat and been deemed innocent in the eyes of Gods and men but he wasn't naive enough to believe that would be enough to let him just continue on as he had within the North. The law might have been satisfied but if the Lord of Winterfell was not then it didn't matter. What some people forgot was that Lords didn't need a lawful reason to exile people from their lands - everyone within that Lord's lands lived that because he continued to allow it. At any time he had the right to revoke the right of anyone to live within his lands, for whatever reason he saw fit. His father was a supremely honourable man and he believed that Jon had discarded his honour in his pursuit to protect his family and people. That might be enough of a reason for Eddard Stark to decide that Jon had outstayed his welcome within his lands.

Honestly, Jon thought he might be right, about the honour at least.

Some actions could never be forgiven in the eyes of the honourable and Jon honestly believed that his actions might fall into that category. He had protected his family and their people but he had done so with actions that no one would call honourable. Burning homes, businesses and families alike was not the actions of a man who could call himself a paragon of virtue.

Some would say that Jon had lost the right to call himself a knight with his actions. But he would ignore those claims until he was as much a monster as Gregor Clegane, a man who was widely considered the absolute worst example of a knight in the known world. He wasn't about to say that his actions demanded forgiveness based on that comparison, he was just certain that if the Clegane could call himself a knight without it 'besmirching the honour of knighthood' then so could he.

At least he had never raped a woman whilst covered in the blood of her own children.

But he might be getting ahead of himself. People might not actually view him in such a way, he didn't know. He had only left the great hall of House Mallister a few minutes ago so it was unlikely that there would be enough for people to reliably gossip about just yet. If this was King's Landing he would say otherwise but Seaguard was not quite so infested with spies and gossips. Or maybe it was, but House Mallister had developed much better spies than those of Lord Varys.

Somehow Jon doubted that rather much.

The walk down the shoreline did help him gather his thoughts though. Every step made him more certain of the idea that his father would be very hesitant to let him return to the North as the Commander of the order he had founded. So, his thoughts turned to what he could do, who he could be, without being commander of the order he had founded and spent the last few years leading and building from the ground up. It was rather strange to realise just how much he identified himself by his duties and his roles in life to be honest.

He was the self-appointed protector of his family and their lands and that was all he had been for the longest time. It was going to take him a rather long time to actually decide what else he wanted to actually be in life, assuming that he would never be welcomed back. Even if he was exiled however, he doubted it would be for life. Not HIS life at least - He didn't think that Robb would look so poorly on Jon taking the initiative and destroying the Greyjoy's before they could become a true threat, not after the betrayal of Theon and the way the Greyjoy's had endangered the lives of their younger siblings.

Robb might well be the Stark heir but he was Tully through his mother and he recognised that Family was more important than anything else in the world. Honours came and went, Duty could be done or forsworn for a solid reason and no reason was more solid than the defence of one's Family.

Was it strange that Jon himself actually felt more connected with the family words of House Tully? Of the late Lady Stark, the woman who had hated him the most in this entire world? It was more than passingly strange but it was the truth. Winter might be coming but Family came first, Duty must be done and Honour was a shield and tool to be used to achieve the defence of the first two. And they whispered in the North that Robb was 'too Tully', if only they knew.

Finding the remains of his order was actually a lot easier than he thought it might be when he had started walking. He had run across one of the squires, who had informed him that the rest of the order was meeting in one of the taverns on the sea front. Jon joined them and was fairly quickly ambushed by Gendry, who had apparently travelled down to meet up with the rest of the order when it had become 'public' knowledge that Jon had led the remains of his order in a daring, successful, raid against the Ironborn at Pyke.

Gendry was, strangely enough, more annoyed that he hadn't been brought along for the raid than anything else.

"You took the fight to the squids and I'm stuck back home looking after the new recruits?" he scoffed as he dragged Jon over to a rather ropey-looking table and chairs, set up outside the tavern itself. Domeric Bolton, Lancel Lannister and Edric Dayne were assembled already. Jon sat down at the same table, being given a flagon of ale by Edric as he did so. Gendry settled back down and clapped his hands, "Now… what's this I've been hearing about you being wanted for high treason?"

Jon raised an eyebrow while Domeric chuckled politely and Lancel groaned in annoyance. Edric was busy admiring a barmaid. He got the impression that Lancel had tried to explain the politics of what had been happening to their base-born friend and found little joy. Either that or Gendry understood perfectly and was just using this as a chance to annoy Lancel. If this conversation were happening but a year ago, Jon would have had no doubt that Gendry was doing it purely to annoy Lancel - the two of them hadn't gotten along very well to begin with. Jon took a drink before replying,

"Not quite high treason." he replied with a small smile, "Not far enough off that for comfort though… I managed to get a trial by combat and won so I've been found not guilty of the crimes presented."

Apparently there were enough of the rank and file that recognised him, and were shamelessly eavesdropping, because this announcement was met with a roar of approval from behind him which did actually surprise Jon enough that he jumped a little in his seat. Immediately he was glad that only Edric had seen him jump in his seat - at least he knew his squire would wait until much later before using it as a source of blackmail or ridicule. However… he couldn't find it in himself to celebrate as the others did.

After all, he truly did believe that he was going to be exiled, however informally, from the North for the nature of his actions. His father wouldn't stand for his own son throwing his honour away like he had without some form of punishment - killing a rather poorly trained knight of the Kingsguard was no punishment after all. And as far as Jon was concerned, it was better to head off the celebrations.

"I'm not going back north."

Only his close friends, his captains of the order, heard him and grew solemn, the celebration of his victory in trial by combat keeping the other entertained. He held up a hand to forestall any complaints and gestured for his friends to follow him. Once they were standing a bit further away from the assembled crowds around the tavern, Jon took a deep breath.

"I don't think my father will let me return to the North." he admitted to his friends, "He venomously disagreed with what we did to Pyke and was pushing for some form of punishment from what I could see. And as Lord Paramount he does not require the law's permission to exile someone of my station."

Gendry began swearing up a storm as Lancel made mutterings of getting in contact with his uncle - whom Jon honestly would be happy to see far removed from this issue. He liked that Tywin Lannister had helped him seek vengeance on the Ironborn but he knew enough about the man to know that if he allowed him to help him with this personal issue, Tywin Lannister would own him. Lannister's were keen on people keeping up with their debts to them after all, the more personal the debts the better.

Edric looked thoughtful but Domeric looked, honestly, positively distraught. He wasn't sure why the heir to the Dreadfort would be affected so much to be honest, they both knew more about Northern politics than anyone else in their group. Domeric shook his head sadly,

"I didn't want to believe my father honestly." he admitted at length, "I was fostered the Vale, much the same as Lord Stark, and I gained an appreciation of their sense of honour and duty. But my father was quick to educate me upon my return - to reconcile that ideal of honour with the realities of honour and duty within the North. I had thought Lord Stark would have been able to do so as well but it would seem not… he still views the North with the honour of an Arryn and that just doesn't fit with the people of the North."

Gendry didn't know much about the politics of any region. He was much more interested in the forge and caving in rib cages with a war hammer when the time came. But even he didn't believe this was something that would be accepted it seemed.

"This is a load of crap!" he growled out, "The people of the North… they wanted vengeance! They were demanding it! All the way down from the keep, all the way to Seaguard, the Northmen were demanding that vengeance be taken in blood from the Ironborn… and now their Lord Stark would punish those who gave the people what they wanted? Because Jon didn't tie a pretty fucking bow on it? Fuck that, fuck Lord Stark and fuck his honour!"

A bit too strongly worded for Jon's liking. No matter how his father viewed him and his actions, he still believed that the man was worthy of respect. But right now he wasn't about to jump to his defence either so he'd just settle for silently ignoring the insults to his father.

"What of the order? What will we do without our commander?"

Leave it to Lancel to cut right to the heart of an issue without hesitation. The others looked to each other for answers before, as one, turning to him. Jon was momentarily too stunned to respond before his brain engaged and he began to form some kind of plan of action for the future command of his order. He couldn't expect to remain in command of the order when he would be miles from its keep after all. Thankfully, however, he had always delegated anyway. The main duties of the commander had been spread out amongst the men who stood before him.

"You continue without me of course." he answered finally, "I was always more of a figurehead anyway. Lancel… you continue to commanded the mounted members, overseeing training and commanding them in battle. Gendry, keep working with in the forge but remember, you'll be taking command of the footmen in battle, they look up to you. Archers… Domeric. You're one of the best shots we have, mounted and on foot, so you take charge of the archery training and in battle. Edric you can…"

"I'm coming with you Jon."

Jon stopped, deathly silent for a moment as he heard what Edric had said and processed it for a moment. He straightened up and looked at his squire,

"I can't ask you to follow me into a period of exile Edric - I won't ask you."

The young Dayne just shrugged,

"You won't have to ask. I'm coming with you whether you want me to or not."

Did Jon want to punch the young Dayne or hug him right then? He wasn't sure which he wanted to do to be honest. It meant a lot to him that he had a friend who would follow him into exile but he also didn't want to be the reason why Edric wasn't able to pursue what he wanted to do with his life. If that was being a member of the order or something else, he doubted the young man would be able to achieve what he wanted when he was constantly trailing behind Jon as he wandered until he found a purpose again.

Not trusting his voice not to hurl some kind of abuse at Edric for being so willing to throw away his life to follow Jon down this path, Jon instead just nodded once in understanding before seeking to move on as quickly as he could,

"Harrion you can…"

This time the pause was because of how natural it had seemed to speak to his friend… who he realised too late wasn't there anymore. He grew silent almost immediately and stared at the empty place by his side that he knew Harrion would usually have occupied. He didn't look away from the spot as he spoke again,

"Lord Karstark… how did… how was…?" he cleared his throat and yanked his gaze away from the empty space to fix it on his remaining friends again, "Lord Karstark has returned to Karhold with Harrion's bones I suppose?"

He honestly didn't know why he asked.

He had had ample time to apologise to Harrion for leading him to his death and wish him the best with the Old Gods. Jon had done these things, said these things, on the Iron Victory on the return journey. And he didn't really want to face the father of the friend he had lead down the path that ended with his death. But for some reason it seemed that he, deep down, did indeed want to know more about Lord Karstark and what was to happen to the remains of his friend.

Domeric was the one to answer in the end,

"Lord Karstark began the journey back to Karhold, yes." he admitted, "He was clearly stricken with grief but he did make sure to mention, to any of the Lords who offered their condolences, that he was proud of his son's life…and… he was proud of his death. He said that if his son had to die so young then dying to end a threat to the North was as best death he could hope for."

That was about the best he could have hoped for now wasn't it? He had led a man's son to his death, the only solace the father could take was in the idea that his son's death meant something. That the result was worth the cost of the life. Jon didn't think a son's life would ever be matched by anything to a father but that seemed to be as close as anything was going to get. He held no doubts about where Harrion's remains would rest - he would rest with his ancestors in the halls of the Karhold, as one of the honoured dead, forever.

Forever with his family.

Speaking of which… Jon was going to be moving away from the North soon and he didn't have any members of his family to say goodbye to in person. Robb and Bran had travelled back up to Winterfell when his father had marched down to Seaguard. Arya had been collected and dragged along with them and Sansa and Rickon hadn't left Winterfell. Leaving his father as the only Stark that Jon would actually be able to say goodbye to before he began his exile from the North.

He bade Edric to ready their supplies and horses and left the three remaining captains of the order to their sober discussions amongst the happier patrons of the tavern.

He decided, as he was walking, that he would take Red Rain with him as well. Jon trusted Lancel to use it well in the name of their order but he didn't trust the man's uncle as far as he could throw him. And it was a rather well known fact that Tywin Lannister had been seeking a Valyrian Steel sword for his family to own for years now. Jon wasn't about to let Tywin Lannister take what he had taken through the Iron Price from one of the Ironborn scum he had killed.

Besides, a man exiled from his family's lands and without the control of a group of trained men needed all the help he could get.

But he needed to actually speak to the one member of family he actually had within Seaguard now, no matter how much he had been putting it off. Surrendering his weapons to the Stark guardsman at the door, Jon stepped into the room that his father had been given to act as his solar for the duration of his stay at Seaguard. Eddard was sat behind a large desk, attending to some issues on paper when Jon presented himself, standing stock still in front of the desk.

The tension was rather thick, if Jon did say so himself.

"Jon."

"Father."

And the two of them lapsed back into silence again after the curt, blunted, greetings. Jon was thinking about what he wanted to say but it seemed that his father had collected his thoughts faster and was able to answer first,

"Jon… why did you do it?" he asked.

It was said so… simply. Jon would have suspected that this was some sort of trap, to trip him up. But this was his father. Eddard Stark didn't deal in tricks and word play, the man was as straightforward as a sword to the gut. An apt description considering his father seemed to want to jump right to the heart of their issues with each other.

"Because they had to be stopped." he answered quietly, "They killed and raped our people. And they threatened to do the same to Sansa, Arya, Rickon and Bran. I couldn't allow them to do that - I refused to let our family live in fear of their return so I did whatever I could to ensure that they would never again be in a position to threaten us like that."

The silence stretched on longer as Jon matched the gaze of his father for a long few moments. It was only after those awkward moments were done that Eddard allowed himself to collapse a little bit, leaning heavily forwards with his head in his hands as he let out a long sigh. Jon didn't say a word. His father wanted to respond so he would wait for it.

"And so you led a mission, which you were commanded not to by your King, endangered the lives of your men." He paused for a moment, "All of that I can forgive, Jon. I disobeyed my 'King' once upon a time as well… I even took some of my closest companions on a secret, personal, mission during the war and got all but one of them killed. I'm not above those same actions so I can't be disappointed, can't be angry, when you fail to avoid the same pitfalls as me."

And there would be a 'but' coming.

"However, what I cannot forgive is your methods." he declared firmly, eyes alit with anger, "You didn't just kill the Greyjoy's Jon - I would have accepted that. Even killing their lords in such a dishonourable way, I could have accepted. But the innocent people, Jon. The maids, the servants, the slaves, the merchants… you killed far more than just the Greyjoy's and their raiders Jon! The entire region is in turmoil now, a civil war in the region is all but a certainty, meaning thousands will die in a bloody, pointless, conflict and that is directly because of your actions!"

His father rarely ever raised his voice and when he had done so in the past it tended to shake Jon more than anyone else shouting, because it was reserved for such tense exchanges. But right now Jon wasn't going to be cowed by his father. He stood by what he had done, it had been necessary in Jon's mind when he had sailed out and he regretted only the cost in lives of his own people when he sailed back.

"I did what I had to do!" he thundered back at his father, who recoiled from the sound. Jon himself barely raised his voice outside of combat, "The Greyjoy's needed to be put down like the rabid dogs they were - I will NEVER apologise for their demise. Pyke… Pyke might have had innocents but that doesn't matter. They would have been the raiders and the rapists of your grandchildren when they grew up - they were Ironborn! Their entire way of life is geared towards supporting the raiding, of supporting the killing, the raping, the stealing and the ruin of our lands! I might not have liked killing all those innocents but I accept it - because they wouldn't have been innocent for long, they would have been the scum of the next generation, hell bent on revenge!"

Eddard growled as he slammed his hands upon the desk,

"That was not your decision to make Jon!" he roared in retaliation, "The lives of those men, women and children were to be decided by the King! You took the law of the land into your own hands, committing treason to do so, for something that has further destabilised the whole of Westeros! Did you think that a knightly order killing off one of the Great Houses of Westeros would be ignored? If the King had decided on the action, they would have accepted it… but he didn't. You did, Jon. You decided to change the entire political landscape of Westeros with three hundred men and a few dozen pots of oil."

Well… when you put it like that, that honestly did seem… well shit.

Jon rocked on his heels for a moment as the weight of what he had done actually settled on him for a moment. He had been so focused on what the consequences of killing the Greyjoy's would be for the North and the Iron Islands that he hadn't thought about what it would mean to the rest of Westeros. The Lannister's wouldn't be moved by the display considering how much they benefited from it and how Tywin had had a hand in it. But he doubted the Tully's or the Tyrell's were feeling quite so secure in their positions, especially considering the Hightower's were in a position to be elevated to Lords Paramount of the Reach should the Tyrell's prove themselves lacking in whatever regard they believed mattered.

"Be that as it may… it doesn't change the fact that they needed to die." he stressed to his father, leaning over the desk, "This is what we do father! We are the Starks of Winterfell, we are the wolves. We don't suffer threats to our pack - our ancestors struck down the Red Kings and House Greystark so they would never rise again to threaten us! You can't seek to punish me for following our ancestors' footsteps surely?"

Eddard took a deep breath and looked at Jon for a few moments in silence,

"I wasn't pressing Robert to punish you more." he declared, stunning Jon, "I was asking for permission to be given total control of your punishment. I don't believe you deserved to die for this or even be sent to the Wall. You are a young man… you're stupid."

The last bit was said with the signature small smirk that Eddard reserved for speaking with Jon. Matching his father, a touch tentatively, Jon stayed silent as his father continued,

"But you had only the best intentions I can imagine in mind - protecting your family and your people." he sighed a little bit, "I was going to exile you Jon. It would have been a temporary exile that would have been revoked easily and quickly."

Jon grimaced,

"I err… I already packed for this eventuality."

His father looked hurt that he would think like that for but a moment before the expression cleared again. Technically Jon had been right about the exile after all, just not how serious his father would be about it,

"I suppose that's good." he grumbled as he sighed once again, "When I was down in the South with Robert I received some news from Starfall… relating to you, Jon. One of the few people who knows who your mother was, a wet nurse named Wylla, is dying in Starfall. Go to her Jon. I would tell you who your mother is but… it would make much more sense down there, in Starfall."

Jon's throat tightened as if gripped by an invisible hand,

"You planned to exile me temporarily… so that I would use the time to find out about my mother?" he shook his head, "That's… foolish father. Why can't I just stay in the North and you can tell me now?"

Again with the long-suffering sigh,

"Because the rest of the High Lords of Westeros need to see that you have been punished, perhaps overly so considering you have already passed a trial by combat. Which, by the way, was far more foolish a thing to ask for, considering the Kingslayer may have been your opponent." he lectured lightly before pressing onwards, "With 'two punishments' levied against you, even the most paranoid of the Lords will believe you have been cowed and you will never repeat your actions on Pyke. As for pushing you to go with the chance to know of your mother… that was the point. Even if you agreed with me, that the Lords needed to see you punished, would you have left the North?"

Probably not, honestly. Jon would have likely made up some elaborate plan to pretend to leave the North before returning as an unknown knight, assuming his roles again without the public knowing. Of course the public would have gotten wind and the Lords would have known he had avoided the punishment he 'deserved'. But with the opportunity to know more about his mother dangling in front of him?

"When did you become cunning father?" he asked, only half-joking before nodding, "Very well then. Lord Stark, I accept your banishment and your advice to travel to Starfall. When would I be able to return?"

Eddard stood and came round the desk,

"A year, no more Jon." he declared, pulling Jon into a fierce embrace, "I might be angry and I might be disappointed in your choices Jon… but I am still very proud of you my son."

Jon tried not to become overly emotional at the display of affection from his father but it was a hard thing. He had been so tightly strung since his trial, believing that his own father had been wanting to hang him out to dry. He was glad that was the furthest thing from the truth in the end but it had been a rather emotional day so far. To say nothing of the fact that he was still processing the death of one of his friends.

Of course it got easier.

"That being said…" Jon raised an eyebrow before his father smacked him across the back of the head, fixing him with a stern gaze as he gripped his hair tightly, "Don't do anything like that again without properly planning it through with your family. They're the ones who have to live with the consequences of your actions - especially if you manage to get yourself killed."

Jon nodded in understanding before his father let him go. They stood there for a few moments more before Jon coughed a little,

"I suppose you can't really wave me off if we're supposed to be at odds with you banishing me and all." he muttered before holding out a hand, which his father clasped in his own, "It's only for a year though… I'll see you soon enough."

His father smiled brightly back at him,

"The next time we see each other, we'll talk about your mother. I promise."


	23. Chapter 23

**AN - Enjoy the chapter. Jon's true parentage is revealed to him within. I look forward to your response.**

By The Waters of the Torrentine

Jon had been thinking about who his mother was for the better part of his entire life - spending only a small amount of time thinking on it but always having the question sitting at the back of his head. Always ready to be asked within his mind whenever he allowed himself a chance to relax, prompting him to throw himself into his work with gusto and not look back. He had pushed himself further and further until he didn't have chance to ask himself that question any more, until he was too busy with more immediate issues to deal with such a question anymore.

But it had never gone away.

It had always been there, ready to be asked again. When his father had said that he was going to find out about his mother during his 'exile' he had managed to keep functioning normally for a while. But he had been getting steadily more and more nervous as he got closer to Dorne, Edric his constant travelling companion. What was he even nervous about? He didn't know… it was an almost nameless feeling. Like knowing who his mother was would either complete him or destroy him in some way.

Thankfully they had decided to travel down the western coast rather than cross into Dorne from the Stormlands so they had managed to avoid the ongoing war in the region with the sell-swords of Essos.

Of course their diversion had led to a rather awkward time they had skirting around Casterly Rock, neither of them really wanting to impose on Lord Tywin Lannister for hospitality. Doubtless he would be a fine host, but Jon was not convinced that the man wouldn't try something foolish, like trying to buy Red Rain from Jon and getting a little bit wrathful when Jon refused to part with it.

It's not like there weren't other swords out there - let one of those owners sell their sword for a mountain on gold. Jon had taken his from the body of an enemy, even if he had managed to kill the man using a combination of cunning and ruthlessness, rather than with honour and superior skill. They had begun to skirt around Highgarden for the same reason, more or less, before realising that there was a tourney occurring near The Ring so they needn't have bothered.

It still disgusted him how Mace Tyrell seemed to think holding a tourney with his entire army on the wrong side of his territory to the threat to the realm was a good idea. But Prince Renly was apparently there and the Fat King doted on his little brother so there would be a tourney while soldiers from other regions bled and died for the safety of Westeros in the Eastern areas of the Stormlands.

He supposed his hatred of the South might be colouring his perception but his perception was only the way it was because of the stupid things the South seemed to enjoy doing.

Didn't matter to him too much of course, he might be exiled from the North but he would be able return sometime soon so he would just continue to hate it and move on. He wasn't going to be living in the South for over a year after all. Once his exile was over he would return home and begin to work his order harder than ever, now aware of their shortcomings when it came to war.

Of course there weren't too many shortcomings in the order's capability to wage war - they had won after all - but improvements could always be made. The Siege of Winterfell, for example, had been a victory only because Theon Greyjoy hadn't the brains to truly command his forces, forces which could have wiped his Order out in the hands of a more seasoned commander. And there would always be a more seasoned commander, just as Jon had realised long ago there would always be a better warrior than himself. He would do his best to cultivate the skills of those around him, to ensure that while there were men better than himself in areas… they were on his side rather than arrayed against him and his own.

But these were all plans and thoughts of the future and the recent past. And they were being dredged up because Jon didn't want to face what was right in front of him, right here and now in the present.

Logically, he knew that he would have to face what was before him now but he wasn't exactly wanting to rush towards it. Despite the fact that he had spent the better part of a few months making his way here for this exact reason. The thing he was trying to avoid was the reason he had trekked as far as he had - after all, Jon could have just stayed in the Riverlands or the Sisters. Technically they were not part of The North after all, he could have been exiled there and yet on hand should anything come to threaten his home immediately.

He needed to get over this.

He needed to get over his irrational fear of what this place represented and actually get the answer to a question that had been burning inside of him for so long. He had been burying the desire, the need, to know the answer for years now but it was free now. Here, just a stone's throw away from where he would find answers, he knew there would be no chance of him pushing the need for the answer down inside of him and moving on with his life. No, he was too close to back away now and he needed to know the answer.

Jon stared across the river at the island and its castle.

If some of the rumours were to be believed, this was the castle his mother had grown up in. Of course, he didn't know if that was true. All he knew was that his nursemaid was dying within the walls of the castle and she knew who his mother was beyond a shadow of a reasonable doubt. It would be just a simple matter of taking the short ferry trip across on one side of the river or the grand bridge on this side of the river.

Jon was contemplating making the journey around to the other side of the river, just to add some more time onto the journey, before he caught his own thoughts and wrangled them back under control. Doubts on this level would be his death on the battlefield so he hated the confirmation that he even could doubt this strongly. He'd never doubted in battle but that was by far stranger was it not? He was almost fearless in the face of the enemy but in the face of this secret, this revelation, he was almost as much a coward as Samwell.

He took a deep breath and dismounted his horse, standing on the edge of the shoreline, the bridge just in front of him. Edric, his ever faithful travelling companion, likewise dismounted but made no move forwards. Jon was thankful for that, thankful for his friend's thoughtfulness and suddenly he realised he was trying to distract himself again. With a deep breath, Jon pushed his doubts and fears aside and began to cross the rather long bridge.

Each step seemed to echo but he knew that was nonsense, the river was rushing below them and the horses were still expressing their exhaustion keenly. But it was still as if all that mattered was the sound of his own footsteps as he approached Starfall castle, home of House Dayne. Resting place of Dawn, when not carried by a member of House Dayne, and one of the single most beautifully functional castles Jon had ever seen.

Winterfell had a stark beauty, one that came almost accidentally as it was clearly built with its function in mind, not beauty. Casterly Rock had been a rather imposing fortification, built to protect and to intimidate but never to appear beautiful. But Starfall? It was different. It was clearly of practical construction, ready to endure a siege, but there was an undeniable beauty in the pale stone of its walls and towers.

Including the aptly named Palestone Tower, which hung like some kind of haunting sentinel, the tower being on an outcropping of the island, surrounded on three sides by the raging river's flow.

There was a small welcoming party once they passed through the gate at the end of the bridge. Edric made his way forwards at a rather energetic pace, catching a woman of similar colouring, if a few years older, in a tight embrace that was well received from what Jon could see. As Jon passed the reigns of his steed to the stable hand, he recognised the woman as Edric's aunt Allyria, the woman who had taken him to the tournament in Harrenhal where Edric had first sworn himself to Jon's service.

The rest of the welcome party appeared to be guardsmen and various servants. Jon let Edric have some time with his aunt before stepping forwards. He might have been a touch awkward but when Allyria Dayne turned to regard him he bowed his head in greeting to her with what he believed to be the correct amount of deference,

"Lady Dayne." he greeted her simply, "Thank you kindly for welcoming me into your home."

He straightened from the bow to see the young woman just staring at him rather intensely. She didn't say a word, in fact raising a hand for Edric to stop when he began to speak, and took a few steps closer to Jon. Allyria Dayne may have been approaching thirty but she was still an incredibly beautiful woman - Jon would have said that those haunting eyes had much to do with that. Jon blinked in confusion as the older woman reached out with a gentle hand, pausing when she noted his confusion.

Her hand was hovering near his cheek. He blinked a few times and glanced at Edric, who seemed as confused as he felt. Jon nodded ever so slightly, giving the Dayne permission to… what? Touch him? This was already, fast, becoming such a strange visit and this was before he finally learnt who his mother was. Allyria's hand was soft, smooth and just a touch warm as it touched his cheek, moving to trace his jaw and touch the smooth skin above his patchy 'travelling' beard.

"I remember a man came in the night to my home." she whispered, her voice accented only lightly in the Dornish tones, "He came to my home with a short companion, the bones of his sister and the sword of my House. And not long after he left, I was left without a sister or a brother. You are that man's shade I would swear to the gods."

Well that wasn't what he had expected. All of the Stark children knew that their father had gone to Dorne to retrieve their aunt with only a handful of good men, leaving the desert lands with only one remaining companion and their aunt's bones. And that was it. Eddard Stark did not speak about the rebellion often but he never spoke about his sister's death or his trip to Dorne, save to mention, briefly, that Dorne had been where he had recovered her bones. And that on that journey, he had collected Jon himself. He had been told he looked like his father before but this was the first time that it wasn't some form of compliment.

Allyria Dayne was telling him that his father had visited Starfall during the trip. Certainly, he had already recovered his sister's bones by that point and had, seemingly, come to be in the possession of Dawn. And the thing about losing her sister… Jon knew the stories of Ashara Dayne throwing herself from the Palestone Tower. He swallowed thickly as Allyria had still not removed her hand from his face. But there was a small smile on the woman's face, a sad little expression,

"But the way your eyes soften as you think… the way you hair seems to grow, with its colouring… the shape of your mouth…" her fingertip ran across Jon's lips and he looked at Edric is a mixture of surprise and panic. His companion was just as baffled as he was and Allyria continued, heedless of how uncomfortable this might be for him, "Yes… I can see her in your face."

He looked… like his mother? That was, obviously, the first time anyone had said anything to that effect. No one in the North would speak about his mother, not when he looked so overwhelmingly like his father instead. Even more so than Robb looked like their father, much to his brother's amusement. But Allyria thought he looked like his mother… did she know who his mother was? Or did she merely suspect, as a great number of people seemed to, that his mother was actually Ashara Dayne?

Would Wylla the nurse maid have kept her silence regarding his mother's identity if one of the members of House Dayne had demanded the answer from her?

He couldn't imagine that the answer was yes but, based on Edric's stories about his aunt, he couldn't imagine Allyria Dayne using her station to lean on Wylla like that. So maybe Allyria was just looking for things she remembered about her sister in Jon? Honestly, Allyria would have been quite young at the time so he wouldn't be surprised if she had forgotten quite a lot of the specifics of Ashara's appearance. Jon himself didn't remember much specific about the late Lady Stark's appearance. Except that ugly look she would get on her face whenever she had to speak to him for longer than one or two barked words.

Not that it really mattered to Jon.

Right now all that mattered was that he was being welcomed into the castle that might well have been his mother's home. Allyria had bade the servants to help with his belongings as he was lost in thought and was now moving away, speaking to one of the guardsmen quietly as Edric came on over to Jon's side. The two of them were silent for a moment as they just followed Allyria into the main hall of the castle. Edric broke the silence,

"I don't think she knows." he admitted to Jon quietly, "Not for sure. She told me she thinks she knows, that she's guessed, but Wylla has not spoken about it to anyone. They say… they say Wylla is delirious."

Delirious? That wasn't good at all. How would the woman be able to tell him the truth then? How would she be able to give him the answer that was now all he could think about? The truth was crying out to him, he could feel it. It was like he was on fire, constantly struggling against the urge to storm through the halls and find Wylla immediately, propriety be damned to the seven hells.

Something of his thoughts must have shown on his face because Edric seemed to sense both his unease and his urgency. With a wave of his hand, Edric bade Jon to follow him and he fell into step behind his friend eagerly. From the talk the servants were making as they passed, it appeared that Allyria was arranging for some kind of small feast with the kitchen servants right now so Jon wouldn't have to engage the hostess for now, much to his relief. The woman seemed to be caught between wanting to love him as family and hate him as the son of the man who had brought such darkness down on her House.

They stopped at a door, a really rather plain and ordinary one at that. Jon thought it should be different, somehow, considering what truth lay beyond it for him. But that didn't make sense - why would the door be any different? He took a deep breath to calm himself as he just stared at the closed door,

"Wylla is in there?"

Edric shrugged a little bit as he removed the greatsword from his back,

"So I've been told." he admitted before slapping Jon on the arm to get his attention. With a steady breath, Edric held Dawn by its scabbard, offering it to Jon, "If you walk out of that room, knowing that you are Dayne by blood… this sword belongs to you Jon. Dawn is only to be wielded by the greatest knight of the House of Dayne. If you walk out that room as a Dayne then the title is yours. And so is Dawn."

Jon looked at the offered sword for a few minutes. He knew what Edric was offering him, should his mother prove to be Ashara Dayne, one of the most coveted titles in all of Westeros. A title with hundreds of years of rich history, a title that would be branded next to Jon's name in history books for thousands of years. Edric was offering him Dawn, the symbol of House Dayne, and the title of the Sword of the Morning.

There was no mention of the unfortunate circumstance of his birth that would mean he was a bastard regardless of who his mother was. If it was Ashara or someone, anyone, else then he was still a bastard. If his mother was a Dayne, he would still not be a Dayne in name, even if he was in blood. And Edric was offering him the position regardless. Considering his young travelling companion was currently the only male in the House of Dayne (ignoring their cadet branch) since the death of his father, it meant a whole lot more. Edric was technically the only Dayne eligible to be the Sword of Morning, even if Jon was the son of Ashara, and yet his friend was offering him the position regardless.

Jon touched the scabbard gently before resolutely pushing the sword back into Edric's arms. He shook his head gently and placed a hand on Edric's shoulder,

"Even if I walk out that door, knowing that I am blood of your blood… I know that I do not deserve the title of Sword of the Morning." he told his friend quietly, "I might be a capable warrior but the Sword of the Morning has to be the greatest Knight of House Dayne. Though I am knighted, I know enough to know that I am no great Knight. You are a great Knight Edric. You fight like a master of the blade, ride like you were born in the saddle and you uphold far more of the knightly virtues than I."

Jon drew Red Rain from his side,

"You deserve to be the Sword of the Morning, Edric. Now I'm going to correct an oversight that I think you have pushed to continue for too long." he nodded to his friend, "Kneel."

Edric licked lips that suddenly looked too dry, no doubt a show of nerves or some such. Jon could tell that Edric didn't think he was all that Jon said he was but that didn't much matter. While his friend might not believe he was the man to take the mantle of the Sword of the Morning, Jon did. And he would never accept the title that he truly believed should be held by Edric Dayne.

Jon stayed silent as his friend slowly, very slowly, fell to one knee. He raised his blade to touch his friend's shoulder,

"Edric of House Dayne… I charge you with the defence and service of the innocent."

"I charge you to be brave."

"I charge you to be loyal."

"I charge you to be just."

"Now… arise as Ser Edric of the House Dayne."

His friend rose from his position on the floor, looking rather… overwhelmed sounded like the best choice of word to be honest. It made a certain kind of sense, considering Edric's own opinion on his knighthood. Edric had been convinced that he wasn't ready to be knighted and had remained so for a long time now, despite all of Jon's reassurances to the contrary. The conversation they had shared about the Sword of the Morning seemed to have been the push that Edric needed to see that he was already a knight, if not in title then in deed and in skill. The knighthood had just been a formality at this point and everyone knew it.

Now Edric would know it too.

Jon gestured to Dawn with a smile as Edric drew the greatsword from its sheath for the first time for something other than maintenance. Making sure to take a few steps back, Jon watched as his friend made a few swipes in the air with the sword before settling it back in its sheathe and then against his back. Edric paused for a moment before giving Jon one of his more recognisable smirks,

"You do know that when a Dayne gets knighted there's supposed to be a big ceremony?" he asked with a raised eyebrow, "Do I have to tell my aunt that you touched me with your sword?"

There was a moment; Jon's brain just kind of stopped as he tried to process what Edric had said - there was no way he had said what he thought he'd said after all - where there was silence. And then Edric just started to snigger away to himself and Jon regained enough of his wits to smack the other man around the back of the head,

"Your timing is fucking appalling." he observed with a smirk, "I'm sure that Gendry would approve but frankly one of him is more than enough."

Of course it might have been rather necessary considering just how serious and nervous he had been just moments before in regards to learning about his mother. He doubted that Edric had made the joke with that in mind however so Jon absolutely did not regret hitting his friend round the head for his terrible joke. He paused as his thoughts were once again drawn to the closed door that the two of them were stood before. Edric noticed that the levity of the situation was gone again now and patted Jon on the back,

"Time is running out for Wylla, Jon." he reminded his friend, "You don't go through those doors you might not find out for years, depending on when you next see your father with the chance to talk about such things."

And knowing his father that could be some time. Knowing himself too, of course. The two of them were naturally sober and serious people after all, finding time between both of their respective duties to discuss his mother might take a while. Even though Jon knew the need for answers wouldn't abate during that time, he knew if he left it here and now it would be a long time before he was ever able to confirm who his mother was.

Taking a deep breath, he nodded to Edric and made his way to the door. He placed a hand on the handle and paused, checking that his friend was on his way down to the main hall, before almost letting go. But no! Gods damn it, no! He would not be a coward here, he would open that door and he would face whatever fear he had about knowing who his mother was!

At the end of the day… he would still be Jon Whitewolf, blood of Eddard Stark and brother to the Stark children. Nothing he learned today would ever change who he was on a personal level. Nor would it change his goals in life - he had set himself the goal of protecting his family and their land, The North. No matter what he learnt on the other side of that door that would never change.

And that was actually a rather comforting thought.

Jon opened the door and stepped inside, closing the door behind him before his irrational fears could get the better of him. He spotted Wylla almost immediately. The woman was… old. Definitely old. She had the darker skin of someone from the South - south of the Neck at least. He wasn't good at guessing where people came from based on their appearance. But she looked to be on the wrong side of six decades… even though he knew she was supposed to be in her forties.

Whatever she was dying of had taken a hold of this woman by the heart and seemed to be sucking the very life from her.

She appeared to be resting but her eyes were fluttering beneath her eyelids which he didn't need to be a maester to know meant she was dreaming. The sweat covering her? He didn't know if that was because of the fever or because the dream she was having was really that intense. That might have been one of those things he would have had to have been a maester to actually understand now that he thought about it for longer than a few seconds.

Jon moved closer to the bed, one of the floorboards groaning when he stepped on it. Tutting to himself, Jon moved off the board, checking his footing before looking up again. Wylla's eyes were wide open as she stared, unblinking, at Jon. He grimaced. It looked like he'd scared the poor woman half to death, and she was already closer to it than she probably would have liked as it was! He stopped moving for a few moments, trying to let her calm down but that seemed to get her even more riled up because she was now desperately reaching out for Jon with one arm, the other curled almost protectively around something,

"Lord Stark! Lord Stark!" she sobbed, tears ooze from her manic eyes as she reached for him, desperately clutching at air, "Lord Stark! I have told no one of the babe's mother… no one, just as I swore! But oh the babe… the babe! Oh Lord Stark!"

She was clearly not thinking clearly but with a fever and whatever else, he supposed that was to be expected. On top of that, Allyria had confirmed he did look incredibly like his father had when he was younger. And Wylla the nurse maid seemed to believe that he was Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell, albeit one from years past. Perhaps the poor woman believed he was some kind of spirit come to haunt her in the guise of someone who had, obviously from her words, extracted an oath of silence from her.

Her sobbing grew and Jon made a decision. Moving closer to the bed, he knelt down beside the bed, taking the woman's madly grasping hand in one of his own, clasping it tightly as he stared her in the eyes,

"Aye, peace lass, peace." he soothed her in a passable imitation of his father's mannerisms, "You're alright… I know. You kept your word all these years Wylla, I'm grateful to you for that. For honouring the duty I gave you when I left."

Playing the role of his father seemed to calm her a little as her sobs became slightly less body-wracking, even if they didn't seem to be stopping anytime soon. The dying woman pulled a bundle from her other hand over, presenting it to Jon,

"The babe… Lord Stark the babe!" she cried, "He wouldn't feed from me Lord Stark! Please! Please, I tried but he would not feed!"

For one, horrible, second Jon thought that the bundle of sheets he had been handed was actually a dead baby. Thankfully, a quick check assured him that the bundle was literally nothing but sheets. He licked his suddenly dry lips. This woman was obviously in a particularly bad way but she seemed to remember his father well enough to be believing she was actually back when he was but a babe.

He couldn't shake the feeling that he was taking advantage of this dying woman here but he also couldn't bring himself to really care all that much. Jon had waited a long time to know more about his mother and this woman knew who she had been. He squeezed the woman's hand, getting her undivided attention,

"Wylla… what of the mother?"

What a simple little question.

Of course he knew that the answer would have a rather large impact on himself but he couldn't have prepared himself for all the information that Wylla gave him. She seemed to come alive as she spoke all she knew about the woman who had birthed him. And she knew more than most nursemaids would about the woman who birthed the babe they were nursing. He should be grateful that she knew so much about his mother, even if most of it was the fevered whisperings of conversations she had had with his father.

Stepping out onto a balcony that came attached to Wylla's room, Jon leant against the pale stone of the balcony's railing as he thought about what he had learnt.

He knew who his mother was!

A part of him wanted to shout out who his mother was, to let the world know that while he might be a bastard, he had had a noble-born mother as well as a noble-born father. That his mother had been a woman of note, of renown and of great beauty. All those times Theon had insinuated that his mother had been nothing but a whore had been wiped away with the simple revelation of her name, let alone all the other things Wylla discussed with him about his mother. He was over the moon, knowing who his mother was but it was spoiled by one thing that he had feared.

His mother was dead.

Not only was she dead but she had been dead for years. It helped in some ways. After all, the reason she didn't raise him wasn't because she didn't love him enough but because she was dead - a reason any child could forgive. In other ways it didn't help of course - he would never be able to get to know his mother himself. She was forever lost to him, only the vague promise of more information about her to look forward to.

But overall… it didn't change anything.

He loved that he now knew who she was but it changed nothing. Sure, if she had been alive to raise him, doubtlessly it would have changed his entire being. But she was dead and he had been raised as he had been raised. His goals remained unchanged, his motivations behind them remained the preservation of his family and their people. As far as he was concerned, he was the man he was today and knowing who his mother was didn't change that.

It didn't change anything.

Robb, Rickon and Bran were still his brothers. Sansa and Arya were still his sisters. And Eddard was still his father. Nothing about how he felt about any of them had suddenly, magically, changed with the knowledge of who his mother was. He was still Jon Snow, now Whitewolf, and he was still a Stark above all else, despite knowing who his mother was. Because he was who he was and he always would be, even now, even knowing what he knew.

Because it didn't change anything.


	24. Chapter 24

**AN - A slightly less divisive chapter. Expect another shortly, big battles to follow. Enjoy.**

To War

Jon wished that he and Edric could have stayed longer in Starfall.

The castle was a lovely place to be, relaxing in ways that Winterfell was not. Or maybe it was just being away from The North? Jon didn't know for sure, all he knew was that he felt his stresses beginning to melt away the more time he spent sat on the bank of the island the castle rested on, skipping stones across the river.

Wylla had passed away the morning after she had told Jon about who his mother had been and no one at Starfall asked him about who she was, which he was grateful for. It was a private matter and the stony Dornish Dayne's and their people seemed to understand that he wasn't willing to talk about it.

Besides, they seemed to have already made up their minds about who his mother was and treated him rather well. Treated him like a distant member of the family, even if they still had a touch of wariness about him because he looked so much like Eddard Stark. Strangely enough there wasn't a whole lot of pleasantries that people had to share with a young man who looked near enough identical to the man who had shown up with their ancestral sword and news of the Sword of the Morning's death.

So he had relaxed as much as he had ever done in the past.

The burning question about his mothers' identity was gone for now, there were a million questions he would have for the Stark Patriarch about this but they could wait. Things to be discussed when they saw each other again. So instead he had done some light training with the new Sword of the Morning, Edric, and just generally relaxing around the island, enjoying the beautiful scenery and actually enjoying this part of the South, surprisingly.

He did his best not to worry about his family back in Winterfell but he had sent and received a few ravens regarding news up North. Apparently Jon Arryn had died and Eddard Stark was to be Hand of the King, something that Jon thought was going to be a good thing honestly. Honour and duty needed to be brought to the South and there couldn't be a better man for the job.

Of course Sansa had gone along with the procession back to King's Landing, to be presented and trained in the courtly manners of a Southern lady. No doubt her future husband would be someone she met in the King's court. She'd replied with a single raven note about how excited she was about the whole thing but also how she missed him and wished that he would visit her in the capital.

He didn't exactly want to see first-hand if Gendry's tales about the stench were true but who was he to deny Sansa's wishes? She was a sweet young lady and it wouldn't be hard for him to visit after all.

He'd sent a raven to Winterfell, to be redirected to Bear Island, to send word to Arya. Rickon had complained, at length, about her being fostered and trained by the Mormont women of Bear Island so he'd know where to send the raven. But he'd not received any replies to his messages. He liked to think that it might be because the ravens were being prayed on by hawks and eagles and the like but what was more likely was that Arya was angry at him and didn't want to speak to him.

Knowing his little sister she was probably still angry about sending her away from the battlefield and angry that he had 'gone and gotten himself banished'. She was an angry little child, even if he knew she only got angry because she cared about him so much. In its own way it was cute but he did hope she wasn't planning on ignoring him for the remainder of his banishment.

Bran missed him too and said as much in frequent messages. He was currently progressing well with his training - apparently Lancel was taking the time to make frequent visits to Winterfell to give him a higher calibre of sparring partner and tutor. Doubtlessly his little brother was going to be smitten with the idea of becoming a great warrior knight before too much longer. Just like Rickon was currently enamoured, somehow, with the idea of being a fisherman. Thankfully Rickon was at the age where everything you could do with your life sounded good if you had it worded right when explained to you.

Of course Robb had the worst of it.

While Eddard Stark was away trying to clean up the capital, the North looked to Robb to lead them as he was the heir. All of the responsibilities were now Robb's to own. At least until his father came back from the capital to release the burden from Robb's shoulders again. The ravens between Jon and Robb were much more numerous than Jon's ravens to his other siblings, giving Robb advice on issues that weren't time sensitive.

Ordinarily, Jon would have been only half a day's ride away from Winterfell and would have been able to stand behind Robb as his faithful knight. He would have been readily placed to provide both protection and council. The fact that he wasn't, due to his actions, was not lost on either of them but Robb didn't hold it against him like Arya seemed to. In fact, Robb had mentioned a few times how the lords of the western shores of the North had wished him well, if only in quiet voices.

Still, any support for his actions was something that Jon would bask in for as long as he could. He had done what he had thought best and the reassurance he gained from both Robb and some of the 'at-risk' Lords was something that soothed his conscience about the raid on Pyke.

Thankfully, the burden seemed to be something that Robb was adjusting well too. He had been in training to take the role as Warden of the North for years now after all, with the help of maester Luwin and the rest of the staff at Winterfell, Jon was certain that Robb would do a damned fine job. When the time came for Robb to be the Warden of the North in truth as well as if practice he would be proud to bow to his brother, secure in the knowledge that the North had a capable man in the role.

Naturally, there had been jokes added in as well. Including a typical "Mine is bigger than yours" discussion that had come out when Robb admitted that he'd managed to convince his father to leave Ice in Winterfell. It was needed for some of the more ceremonial aspects of the role and it was a symbol of Eddard's trust in Robb to carry out the role as well as he could. And Ice was a greatsword, as opposed to Jon's longsword, Red Rain.

Cue the brotherly ribbing.

Edric had ribbed him about the same thing actually. The new Sword of the Morning was incredibly happy with himself and with his weapon, the legendary sword Dawn. He'd made sure to make his size jokes as soon as he could and Jon had made sure to then beat Edric in every spar they had to prove that it wasn't the size that counted, it was how you used it. Which had caused even more ribbing.

Naturally.

But between the ravens to Winterfell and his sparring with Edric, Jon found the time to have his long hair cut. Edric found a great deal of sadistic pleasure it hacking at Jon's long hair with a rather blunt knife until one of the servant girls shooed him away and actually did a fairly good job of it. For the first time in a long time, Jon's hair was actually short! A completely impractical amount of hair in the North but a perfectly sensible amount when it came to the heat of Dorne. He'd made sure to thank the servant girl in question and she'd turned a little red before disappearing, giggling with other servant girls.

He wasn't as oblivious as people thought he was when it came to women but he thought that was a little bit weird. To him it would have made sense for her to act on any little emotions or crush she had on him immediately. But maybe he was just too used to being surrounded by forceful women like Dacey, Arya and Sansa? Probably. This, the giggling, was probably the norm and the North was probably the weird region when it came to girls being more open to pushing for what they wanted.

Wasn't Dorne supposed to have the wildest girls? Or was that another tall tale from Lancel?

But he hadn't let that really distract him at all and he'd moved on quickly to another spar with Edric… which was why he was currently doing his best to dodge out of the way of the shining sword of his friend. Ducking backwards, Jon tried his best to ignore the fact that the tip of the sword passed his bare chest with barely half an inch to spare. His own sword, rippling red drops along its smoky-steel, swung up to almost bash Dawn away to the side to get its diamond edge away from him.

He pushed forwards, inside the effective range of Edric's greatsword, and grabbed Edric by his left arm, using it as a handhold as he brought his friend forwards with a strong pull. Edric stumble forwards despite bracing himself and Jon head-butted his sparring partner above the eyes. It disorientated both Jon and Edric but Jon was able to recover first, leaning backwards and flicking his sword across Edric's chest, drawing a very faint red line that began to ooze a tiny slither of blood.

Some of the guardsmen that had amassed to watch the spar and they cheered as Jon won the 'first blood' challenge with that tiny little cut across Edric's bare chest. Grinning, Jon dumped a small bucket of water over himself. They were sparring in only their breeches because the sun was high and it was just too damned hot for Jon to want to clamber into his training gear for a quick sparring match. They'd made it a bit of a game so first to bleed lost - of course using their actual weapons was usually a big no-no when it came to training but it had turned out alright.

Jon wiped off the tiny amount of blood on his blade as Edric, getting followed with playful jeers from the guardsmen, sheathed his own blade and wandered back on over.

"Remind me again why I agreed to spar with you shirtless and until one of us was bleeding?" Edric asked with a groan as he sat down heavily on a stone bench, "Because seriously… whoever came up with that idea was a damned fool."

Jon smirked a little bit,

"I just complained about the heat Ned, you're the one who challenged me to first blood." he paused for a moment before adding, "Shall we chalk this one up as another 'skill over size' win for me then Ned?"

The glare he got from Edric in response was without heat so he just laughed at his friend's annoyance and pain. He was beginning to feel a little bit restless, hence why he had agreed to the stupid challenge in the first place to be honest. Sure, he was enjoying this time with some relaxing but it was getting on his nerves a little as well. He was used to always having something to do and now? Well now he didn't have anything to do. He could do whatever he wanted to do but there was nothing he needed to do.

Well, he could send a raven to his father about his mother. But he wanted to actually wait until he was face to face with him for that. Didn't want to discuss cherished memories of his mother with impersonal writing - it should probably be done with the two of them drinking some ale as they reflected or something. Something that conveyed the emotion of the conversation they found themselves having. Not to mention you never knew who was going to be watching the raven's notes in King's Landing and he didn't want something so personal dragged through the legendary gossip system of King's Landing.

He would have gone right back to challenging Edric to another battle had it not been for the maester of Starfall, a rather portly fellow, rushing out into the yard. The man was the type who had never rushed anywhere in his life so it was a rather surreal thing to witness that had everyone watching. Especially Jon as the rotund man was making his way to him with a raven's note. Corresponding with his siblings didn't require such movement from such a man without reason. Jon took the offered piece of paper quickly, glanced at the handwriting and immediately felt on edge. Only one man Jon had ever received correspondence from wrote in such a manner.

The Spider, Lord Varys.

The Kingdom is under much greater threat than previously believed, Ser Whitewolf. A dragon, previously thought slain, has risen. It commanded the invasion of the Stormlands and has led a second force across the sea in an attempt to regain the lands of its father. Beware Aegon, the Young Dragon. The realm calls you to serve Ser Whitewolf, this dragon is not the right beast to rule.

It wasn't signed but it honestly didn't need to be. Only someone like the Spider could tell him so little but tell him so much. And all in that almost insultingly feminine writing as well! Not to mention how he managed to avoid giving support for King Robert within this letter but also managed to damn Aegon without ever hinting at who he believed would be 'the right beast' to rule the Seven Kingdoms.

He was a tricky bastard.

Jon knew what the Spider wanted. Or at least, he thought he did. The Spider might be a terrible example of a human being, with all the lying and the spying and such, but he seemed to genuinely want what was best for the Realm. The issue was that he didn't seem to care overly much how much blood had to be spilled 'for the good of the realm'. Jon didn't either - but he drew the line at the blood of his enemies and he wasn't sure that the Spider didn't think that literally everyone was expendable to some degree.

Thought what he expected Jon to do, he did not know.

And Aegon Targaryen? Rhaegar's son had had his head caved in by Gregor Clegane before he raped Elia Martell. Everyone knew that. The only way Aegon Targaryen had escaped the Sack of Kings Landing is if he hadn't been there at the time… which meant someone within the capital had smuggled him out. There were a number of suspects but, honestly, the Spider was actually one of the best bets for who had snuck him out. But this note? Well Jon was being pushed by the Spider to ensure that Aegon didn't get chance to ascend to the Iron Throne.

The Spider helped the babe escape years ago and then tried to push Jon to kill him when he returned a man grown with an army? What could have pushed the Spider to reconsider so much?

Jon didn't know what it could have been and to be frank, he didn't care. The Targaryen's were no friends of the Starks. Rickard and Brandon Stark could attest to how the relationship had soured and, doubtlessly, the Targaryen's that remained would have some kind of resentment for Eddard Stark joining Robert's Rebellion after the last Targaryen King demanded his head for the actions of Rhaegar Targaryen.

How dare the man raise his banners to avenge his brother, father and the abduction of his sister! Honestly, Jon would never understand how the Starks could have ever been seen as anything but justified. But he knew enough to know that loyalists still sneered the Stark name and it was likely that this Aegon would too. He would push until former loyalists felt secure enough to declare for him, take the throne and then try and purge the realms of those who had dethroned his family.

The Starks chief amongst those families.

Jon might be exiled from the North but his purpose hadn't suddenly changed. He was to protect his family from any and all threats. And this Aegon and his armies? They would be a threat. He growled a little bit as he handed the note to a curious Edric. He took a deep breath to try and calm himself, moving on over to his clothes to throw on a tunic as he heard Edric crumple the note in his hand,

"Men of Starfall!" he roared, gaining the attention of the guardsmen and passing smallfolk alike, "You know of the eastern invasion affecting the Stormlands… what you not know is that the master of those armies styles himself as Aegon Targaryen! He seeks to return the Dragons to their Iron Throne! The man styles himself our king and yet he comes at the head of an Eastern army to slay the Westerosi!"

Honestly, Jon knew that Edric had something of a 'parade ground voice' sometimes but he had never heard his friend speaking with such fever before. And the smallfolk too… they seemed to be angrier than they really had any right to be. Whoever was king on the Iron Throne made little difference to them after all, their troubles were still the same and their lives went unchanged by events in the court of Kings Landing.

What could have had the men and women of Starfall so incensed? After all, if this was actually Aegon and not a fake, the man was the son of Elia Martell. Surely the people of Starfall would be cheering for him? Or at least not quite so openly hostile. Edric held Dawn aloft as Jon prepared himself for the coming ride as quickly as he could,

"The last Dragon Prince of Westeros was a madman like his father! And this 'Aegon' claims to be his son… never again will the Dayne's follow the line of madmen!" he declared strongly, "My uncle… Arthur Dayne, the Sword of Morning, one of the greatest knights of any age! He forsook his vows as a knight, to protect the innocent, on the command of his friend Rhaegar, starting a war that tore Westeros apart! I ask you, men and women of Starfall, shall we follow that man's son? Shall we allow our honour to be discarded on the commands of selfish dragons?"

There was a noise that rose up from the other people in the courtyard that Jon could only describe as a guttural noise of pure anger and support for what Edric was saying. He hadn't thought that the Targaryen's had made such strong enemies in House Dayne but it seemed that they took the honour of their Sword of Morning to an almost Arryn extent if he was honest. Plus it had been Arthur Dayne's decision to go along with it… if you believed a Kingsguard truly had a choice in which orders to obey when they came from the crown prince. Who was apparently a personal friend of Arthur Dayne as well.

He supposed it didn't matter.

The Dayne's held a resentment towards Rhaegar Targaryen for his part in making Arthur Dayne go against his knightly vows and starting a civil war. Whether they were right to do so or wrong, it didn't change the fact that there was an awful lot of hate in the people of Starfall that was going to be brought to bear against the man who styled himself as Rhaegar Targaryen's son. Edric finished with some orders to guards who rushed to the stables as Jon approached,

"I didn't realise House Dayne held so much hate towards the Targaryen's." he admitted as he adjusted his sword at his waist, watching the courtyard become a flurry of activity, "And, correct me if I'm wrong, but this doesn't look like you're mobilising the men-at-arms to ride with us. It looks like you're… it looks like you're raising the armies of House Dayne."

That made much more sense now.

Even now guardsmen were rushing through the gates astride their mounts and the blacksmith was hurrying his helpers with an enthusiasm that bordered on the manic. It made sense, in a way, he supposed. Edric Dayne, Jon's former squire, was the last male Dayne of the main Dayne line. He was no longer a squire, he was now a knight and the Sword of the Morning as well - he was no longer a child but a man grown with experience in war. It made a certain amount of sense that Edric would take the title of Lord Dayne officially now that he was back here.

He had probably done it while Jon had been talking to Wylla.

"I don't suppose your ceremony for becoming Sword of the Morning included accepting the mantle as Lord Dayne officially."

It wasn't a question and they both knew it. Edric sighed a little bit as attendants rushed to encase him in his armour. Edric refused to allow any of the servants to touch Dawn, however, even as he turned to speak to Jon, another servant attaching Jon's own armour over his light tunic and breeches,

"I am the last male of the main line, Jon." he was still being dressed like Jon remembered Sansa dressing her doll, "I'm sorry I didn't tell you beforehand. But this is where I am needed so…"

Ah.

"So this is where you are staying." Jon finished for his friend. There was a moment of silence as the servants finished up and quickly left to fetch horses for the two of them. Jon didn't often say it but Edric Dayne was his closest friend. He was a phenomenal swordsman, quick thinker and someone whose company made every conversation feel lighter and more cheerful than it otherwise would have been without him. Edric Dayne might well be a great lord and a strong commander of fighting men but he was Jon's friend and he was sad to acknowledge that he would likely not see his friend again when he returned to the North.

The North and Dorne were literally the opposite ends of Westeros after all.

Edric opened his mouth to respond but Jon shook his head, placing a hand on Edric's shoulder for a moment. They stayed like that for a moment before Jon pulled his friend in for a tight embrace. He patted his friend's back hard through the armour,

"It has been an honour and a privilege to fight alongside you Ned." he told his friend before pulling back, clasping the man's wrist instead, "So I will fight alongside you one last time my friend. Let me ride with the men of Starfall. Let me do battle alongside the Sword of the Morning in one last campaign before we part ways."

Edric grinned a little bit as he squeezed the clasped arm tighter,

"The honour has been mine my friend. And I would love nothing more than to fight alongside Ser Whitewolf, the Bloody Wolf, one last time as well." he agreed. There was a moment of profound silence and understanding for a moment before Edric added, "Besides, I'll see you again. I think its Northern tradition that I show up in person to marry your sister Arya. So give her a year or two to 'pretty up'..."

Jon smacked the Lord of Starfall round the back on the head in the middle of his own castle and the two of them just laughed as the levies of the Torrentine province were called to war.


	25. Chapter 25

**AN - Apologies are in order for last chapter. Rickon was mentioned as being alive - this was a mistake, Rickon did not have chance to be born. Thank you to the reviewer who brought this to my attention. Without further ado, please enjoy the next chapter.**

A Dragon Revealed

Surprisingly enough, Edric had been able to call upon the arms of both the main house of Dayne in Starfall and the arms of the cadet branch and their holdings in High Hermitage. Together the total Dayne forces numbered within the thousands, three thousand to be exact. Although they were not composed in the same way as the Northern armies that Jon was used to, he couldn't say that the Dornish way of war was wrong though. It produced results in a far different manner to that which Jon was used to. Which made sense considering the drastically different climates.

Whereas the Northern forces focused on heavy infantry, limited but very heavy cavalry and light archer support, the Dornish seemed to have evolved in a different direction. The majority of the forces were actually footman, each armed with a long spear and a few javelins that were attached to their back. Due to the heat of Dorne, these spearmen wore heavily armoured breastplates but neglected armour elsewhere. Because the footmen were trained in ranged combat as well, there were no dedicated archers within the force that Edric had mustered.

There were, however, some rather strange horsemen.

Rather than being knights of any recognisable kind, they were a much lighter cavalry with the same level of armour as the spearmen and with much the same armaments too. Each of the horsemen had a spear, nothing heavy like a lance but still longer than a typical hunting spear for example. Along the side of the horse a few javelins were stored, which the cavalry would hurl at the front lines then dart away before the enemy footmen could respond properly. And for chasing down the enemy, and for brief clashes with other horsemen, they were armed with a curved sword that seemed to be weighted towards the tip, making it all but useless as a stabbing weapon but giving it much more power in a slashing motion.

So altogether the forces were formidable, even if it wasn't in the 'traditional' way as Jon would see it. It would be a rather strong learning experience for himself to be honest, he was used to commanding men but he was used to waging war in the same way that the Northern armies had been making war for thousands of years. Might take him a bit to learn to adapt to the way that the Dornish had been waging war for thousands of years as well.

Thankfully it seemed that Edric had a much firmer grasp of how his people fought than Jon did, naturally, and wasn't going to make a big deal out of teaching him how to command like a Dornishman. Even though they both admitted that would be exactly what Lancel would have done if Jon had asked how to command forces like a Lannister.

Though why Jon would ever ask how to hire disposable mercenaries and tell them to charge he didn't know.

It was kind of liberating, being able to make quite so many Lannister jokes openly now that they were on the march, still within the confines of Dorne, if only just. No one in Dorne would take offense to jokes at the expense of the Lannister's after all. And both Jon and Edric were happy to be able to enjoy the jokes, safe in the knowledge that them laughing wasn't going to upset Lancel. There was an unofficial ban on Lannister jokes back north at the headquarters of the Order - nobody wanted to deal with an angry Lancel Lannister - when he was angry sparring took a decidedly more painful turn.

Here though? Well the Lannister jokes were free game, even though the Dornish forces that Jon was riding with were now going to be entering the Stormlands themselves. Despite the fact that the Queen was a Lannister, even the Baratheon Bannermen would still be found enjoying a good Lannister joke.

Was this what it took to keep the southern Stormlander's from chomping at the bit to fight the Dornish? Some jokes about Lannister's, gold, whores and a bucket of milk? It seemed to be because there weren't any of the fights between the two forces that Edric had been worried about. Instead they were viewed with a healthy amount of suspicion until their intentions could be found out by some questioning of Edric himself.

So while he was off talking with some Baratheon Bannermen who would rather see the Dornish burn in the seven hells than step foot in the Stormlands, regardless of the ongoing invasion, Jon and the rest of the forces were left to cool their heels on the Dornish side of the border. Which, for convenience sake it seemed, was a river. Normally Jon wouldn't have minded at all but unfortunately for him, it seemed that some of the other Dornish had decided it was time to contribute to the defence of Westeros.

The men of House Dayne had made jokes when another two thousand spearmen from House Martell showed up at the border a few hours after them. Something about how House Martell only made their move when House Dayne was ready to show them up. He didn't remember the exact joke and he didn't care. Because although the Martell commander, one Prince Oberyn Martell, was off with Edric to negotiate passage across the river with the surly Stormlander lord who's Keep guarded the border, he had left his forces behind with the forces of House Dayne.

Nothing wrong with soldiers of the same kingdom mixing with one another before they move forwards to do battle with common foe now is there? Absolutely not. Jon was actually rather glad that the men would get a chance to meet with the men they would stand side by side with. It promoted a sense of comradery that really helped men to push past what they thought were their limits, all in the name of helping their comrades. It was a good idea to let the men mingle - he just wish that he didn't stick out like a sore thumb. Maybe then he would have been ignored by the annoyances that were the Sand Snakes.

Oberyn Martell was a man of many lovers and, seemingly, just as many daughters.

Thank all the Old Gods, individually, that he had only seen fit to bring three of his daughters to war with him. Jon didn't believe he could honestly have been able to stand it if he had been sought out by all seven of the Sand Snakes and not just the three. Though he supposed it might be easier seeing as some of the others would be much younger and capable of being much less aggravating.

And the really bad part?

They had only just dismounted their horses and started making their way to him. They had been in his sight less than five minutes and already he could feel the mischief of Arya being put to shame. And the desire to be a warrior that Arya felt being dwarfed. And… well the beauty of a pre-teen girl couldn't really stand up to the beauty of a woman who looked like she was styled by the Gods themselves to make men think better of their marriage vows.

Apparently one of them recognised him, just sitting on a stone under a tree polishing his sword, because they began to make their way over to him. Either that or they recognised Valyrian steel when they saw it. There weren't all that many Valyrian steel swords left in the world and most of them tended to be famous in Westeros. He sighed a little bit as the youngest of them, the one with a bright and mischievous expression on her face, came almost skipping over, trying to look as innocent as possible.

Without meaning to, he reacted instinctively, having seen Arya try that expression a few times and having had said expression work with Sansa a few times,

"No."

There was a moment of silence where Jon realised what he had said and inwardly groaned and the woman heard what he said and tried to process it for a moment. The youngest was the first to speak,

"No… what?"

Jon siGhed a little bit, rubbing the bridge of his nose as he looked at the Sand Snakes again. The oldest, Obara he believed she was called, looked like she was about to start glaring at him and her grip on her spear seemed to tighten. The middle sister, the incredibly beautiful one, seemed to be rather neutral but he doubted it. Youngest? She was still trying to look innocent, of course, so she currently looked like a beaten puppy.

Best to answer honestly.

"I've got two little sisters. Both of them have tried that act before and it's usually because they want something they know I'd say no to normally." he told them, causing the youngest to scowl prettily as the oldest scoffed in amusement and the gorgeous one just smiled a very distracting smile, "Since there's only one interesting thing about me… I'd say you were going to ask to hold my sword. So… no."

To punctuate his answer, Jon sheathed Red Rain with finality before watching them for whatever reaction they would give. He might have based it on the actions of his sisters in the past but he honestly had no guarantee that the youngest one here didn't normally act like that and he hadn't called her out on being a bit of a brat when she was just acting normal. He didn't think that was the case, considering the reactions of her older sisters, but he might just have put himself in a rather dangerous position - sitting in front of three pissed off Sand Snakes alone by a river.

Perfect recipe for murdering and hiding the body.

"She thought you were someone famous."

A very blunt and concise description from Obara there. She had the same smoky accent as all beautiful women from Dorne seemed to have but there was a bluntness there that, honestly, reminded Jon of the Mormont women. Although that might have actually just been because she looked like she was equipped for the war ahead of them. The other two looked like they were more suited to court than a warzone but their own father had dragged them here himself so he supposed they might have a purpose.

Was the middle woman's job to distract the enemy? Because if she was within sight he might not be able to keep his own mind on the battle… right up until that point where Jon felt the rush of battle again. If he was feeling that rush he doubted that even the beautiful Sand Snake could distract him.

But dwelling on what-if scenarios didn't remove him from his current, potentially dangerous, position.

"Oh?" he raised an eyebrow at the younger sister, "And who did you think I was? Surely no one too important."

Was he going to have a problem with the Sand Snakes? He was told he looked very similar to his father but he didn't think that Eddard Stark had done much to earn the ire of Dorne. The Martell's might well hate the Baratheon's and the Lannister's for their parts in the death of Elia Martell but what the hell had Eddard Stark done? The only thing he could think of was that he hadn't showed up in time to stop the Lannister's. But that had been a very near thing - after all, Eddard Stark had been only a matter of minutes too late to stop the Mad King's death, let alone the death of Elia Martell.

What was the younger woman's name again? Some of the Dayne men had taunted him about the Sand Snakes before he had arrived, about how they would eat him alive if he met them. Might have been part of the reason why he was so wary of them honestly. But the teasing one? She was… Tyrene? Tyene. That was it. She seemed to be scowling perfectly well at Obara now,

"I thought he was the Whitewolf!"

The fuck?

He was a name that people knew all the way across the fucking continent? If he had brought Ghost with him, he might have understood. But he had decided that life this far south would likely be too much for the wolf to stand and had left him with Gendry with the Order. Ghost liked Gendry well enough to obey his commands… if he felt like it. And he knew better than to hunt within the keep and its surrounding village. But recognising him as Ser Jon Whitewolf without the visual aid of the massive white dire wolf? That was a bit scary to be honest.

Why did people know of him?

Oh yes. Probably because he had alerted the world to his threat-level because he had gone and done away with a family who had held power in their area of Westeros for the better part of three hundred years. That was the kind of thing that got you noticed he supposed. He was about to make a joke, to decrease the chances of them suspecting him, when the gorgeous sister, Nymeria he now remembered, ruined that simply enough,

"He is Ser Jon Whitewolf." she remarked with a soft smirk, "Although I think he wishes I hadn't told you that."

Jon gave her a weak glare that had no real heat in it while her sisters reacted differently. Tyene seemed to be very pleased with herself, going so far as to make a face at Obara, who looked at first embarrassed and then angry. As if it was his fault that she had just assumed that he wasn't Ser Whitewolf because he hadn't immediately jumped up to 'claim his fame' or some such rot. All of a sudden he felt that he didn't really want to be here anymore but he doubted that they were just going to let him leave.

Even if only one of them seemed actually interested in speaking to him. He wondered what it was that Tyene actually wanted to know. Maybe something about Pyke?

"I heard you got poisoned by a plant from the Neck. Did you happen to know which one?"

Her enthusiasm was clear and that was, actually, a touch more concerning that anything else. She wanted to know about a poison that had damned near killed him? He wasn't sure he liked what that implied about her and her intentions towards him. Obara seemed annoyed that she had asked and Nymeria seem annoyed as well, though he got the impression she was more annoyed about how he had asked rather than the fact that he had actually asked in the first place.

He looked between the sisters for a moment, keeping an eye out for Edric's return. The Lord Dayne would be a perfect excuse to leave these ladies - anything else and they might get offended. He might not know as much about the Sand Snakes as the natives did but what he did know suggested that they might not react well if he slighted them in some way. Most gossip he had heard suggested that they would react completely out of proportion and with potentially lethal repercussions.

Jon though those stories were most likely nothing but crap but he didn't really want to be pushed into a position where he had to figure that out.

"Honestly? I don't know." he admitted with a small frown, "I was slipping in and out of consciousness… I do know that only the Crannogmen seemed to have any idea what needed to be done to cure me. I'm afraid I'm a touch unreliable when it comes to telling you what antidote was administered as well. Afraid I was busy trying not to die."

Okay so he had told himself he wasn't going to antagonise them, and he was going to keep that promise to himself, but he really couldn't help the last comment when Tyene looked like she was about to start pouting because he couldn't tell her the poison that almost killed him. Because he had been busy being delirious at the time. It was nice to have something confirmed of course - the Sand Snakes seemed to be as interested in poisons as their father was.

Really not good for his health if they decided that they were going to be angry with him for whatever reason.

Tyene did seem to be a bit put out at not getting the answer she wanted but she didn't seem to be angry - not that he trusted in his ability to read the emotions of a woman he had only just met. At least, not enough for him to potentially risk himself. He'd already had one experience of being poisoned and he was in no hurry to experience the same thing again if he were honest. He doubted he'd ever share the fascination with it that the Sand Snakes and their father, the Red Viper himself, seemed to have regarding the disgusting weapon.

"You took Red Rain from Lord Drumm… and burned Pyke to the ground." Obara asked him with a small frown, "Why did you do that? Why take the heirloom of another family? And why ruin the lives of those not named Greyjoy just the same as those who were?"

Old Gods and the New… Obara really wasn't for beating round the bush was she? Most people would have cautiously asked him a question like that but she had pushed on through, brazen as anything, and just asked him straight. Seemed that neither of her sisters had expected her to be that blunt either as Nymeria looked to be disapproving in a gorgeous and incredibly, annoyingly, distracting way and Tyene was glaring at her sister.

Though whether or not that was because she had lost her chance to ask more questions about his symptoms to narrow down which poison it could be, he didn't know.

But what would he tell them? The truth seemed to be the best option but he wasn't about to move on into the long winded explanation - he was still planning on escaping these snakes after all. He looked between the sisters again before sighing a little bit to himself. Seriously, it was like looking at personifications of the worst aspects of his sister's personalities - were all women only a strange upbringing away from being like the Sand Snakes? Probably.

"I burned Pyke because the Greyjoy's might have been in charge but they were hardly the only raiders on the island. The islanders would have rallied and they would have raided again fairly quickly - burning their town and castle removed them from play and left a power vacuum. So no raiding. No threat to my family and my people." he stressed the last part before adding, "And I took Red Rain because, by Ironborn customs, it was now mine. And I wasn't about to leave a Valyrian steel sword to burn in some salt-encrusted castle."

Red Rain… he had taken it because he wanted to. It had been simple enough at the time and he didn't regret taking it for one minute. Others would object to how he had taken it but, if the stories about the blade were true then Red Rain had been taken by trickery anyway. At least he had carried on that tradition, even if he hadn't been able to do so with a wooden cudgel in hand at the time. He wasn't a selfish man in many ways but he really wanted to take that sword for himself, so he had done so.

An indulgence here and there was hardly the end of the world now was it?

Obara nodded once, accepting his answer without actually speaking. Seemed he had passed some sort of test or the like. Not that he really cared if he had the approval of the Sand Snakes, he would just settle for not having their attention. Nymeria spoke for the first time to him,

"It is good that you place family so highly." she agreed with a nod, "It is one of the only things that matter in this life. It's why kinslaying is so hated."

Jon should have watched his mouth. He really should have just kept his mouth shut until he had managed to reign in the impulse to shoot off a smart comment to that. But it ended up being too tempting. The chance to call the Sand Snakes of their hypocrisy was just too tempting for him to pass up, especially seeing as he was looking for any reason for them to just leave him alone.

Let it be a smart comment getting them angry enough to leave, he supposed.

"And the fact that we're currently marching to engage Aegon Targaryen's host from Essos fits with that world view now does it?" he asked with a raised brow, "If your father finds himself facing Aegon in the midst of battle, will he actually fight? Will he become a kinslayer?"

Oh he had touched a nerve there! If he wasn't already holding Red Rain he might feel like he was in mortal danger right now. But fully armoured and with his weapon of choice literally in his hands? He was confident that all he'd managed to do was get three women rather angry at him in the space of a few seconds. Besides, it was a good question.

Oberyn Martell was famous throughout Westeros for his almost undying hatred of all things Lannister for the actions that had led to the death of his sister Elia Martell. If the commander of this invasion truly was Aegon Targaryen then he was the son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Elia Martell herself. He honestly doubted that Oberyn would march to war, even with only a token force like the two thousand he had brought, if he believed there was even the slightest chance that he would be facing Elia's son in combat.

What did Oberyn know that the rest of Westeros didn't? The rest of Westeros was happy enough to accept Aegon was who he said he was but the Martell's would likely have had to have proof that they were right before they made any moves against Aegon. So how was it that the Martell's had information about this 'Aegon' while the rest of Westeros, even Varys, didn't?

Or maybe Varys did… and that was how the Martell's knew they would not be slaying kin? But if Varys knew then why wasn't he letting the rest of Westeros know that this 'Aegon' was a fake?

Honestly, Jon did not have a head for politics. He was glad he wasn't royalty, if he was then he would have been forced into 'The Game of Thrones' as a much bigger piece. Probably came with all kinds of problems… he had trouble balancing his impact on the realm now as the commander of a knightly order. He'd probably make a terrible King. Though he really liked to think he was still manage a better job than Robert Baratheon, the only other example Jon had of a good warrior being made King.

Except Aegon the Conqueror of course, but he'd had dragons so that was kind of an unfair comparison.

And while he had been despairing in his inability to deal with court politics, it appeared that the Sand Snakes were backing off, despite being very angry just moments before. He glanced to the right, seeing a tall, olive-skinned, man with his arms crossed over his chest, glaring at him. Attractive, objectively speaking, and had the same eyes as the Sand Snakes. So this, from what Jon could guess, was Oberyn Martell.

Seemed he might have heard Jon asking the question.

Pissing off the Sand Snakes? Not something that was usually advised but most people wouldn't be too harsh on him for that. But pissing off a Prince of Dorne? Well that was a lot worse if he had to speak entirely objectively. Jon thought about his options - apologise immediately or try and run?

Oberyn stopped that choice cold.

"It does when the man who styles himself as my nephew is a liar." he declared, answering the question Jon had actually asked, "I will kill that man and take great pleasure in killing the man who would uses the names of my loved ones in his mad gambit for power."

It was a good answer but it did remind Jon that, somehow, the Martell's knew that the Aegon in command of the forces was not actually the Aegon sired by Elia Martell. But how? How could they possibly know this? Jon resolved not to think about that for now. Because if Aegon was the real dragon or not, it didn't matter, he was still a threat to both the Realm and to Jon's family.

"Besides, White Wolf… the whole world should already know he could never be a Martell." he declared seriously before smirking wide and pulling Jon in close with one arm, causing Jon to make a strange noise in alarm as he was pressed up against the suddenly very happy Dornishman, "He charges into Westeros like a wounded boar! No Martell would be this reckless and no Targaryen would have been failing for so long - or so the history books will tell you of young men named Aegon eh?"

What the hells was happening?

One minute the man looked like he was about to murder and the next he was pulling Jon into a hug he had STILL not managed to escape from despite his confused struggles. He broke free with a scowl that was matched by Oberyn's smug little smirk. The answer was not an answer at all - nothing but a jape. But it did touch on one issue that Jon was still rather confused about. The issue was simply put; Why? Why was Aegon invading with an army full of foreigners?

Jon didn't pretend that the realm was as united as people liked to think it was. There was still bad blood between the Lannister's and the Martell's. The Baratheon's and the Tyrell's were also at odds if you counted the opinions of the older brothers - and discounted how well Prince Renly spoke of them. But there were former loyalist house from the Rebellion that would have happily risen up as one if they had been brought into the planning, if their support had been cultivated.

But Aegon didn't seem to have done any of that.

Instead he had invaded the Stormlands with a foreign army and… what? Expected that Westeros would fall before him as it had to his ancestor all those years ago? Unless the young man had three fully grown dragons with trained riders, he was going to be in for a rude awakening. Because all he had managed to do was what Robert Baratheon had been trying, and failing, to do for years now - he'd unified Westeros.

The Lannister's and the Martell's might hate each other but neither house would stand for armies from Essos to be running roughshod through Westeros, even if it meant working on the same side of the battlefield as each other. Enemy of my enemy is still my enemy in this case, only difference was that neither the Martell's nor the Lannister's would fight each other while engaging another enemy.

He thought so anyway.

A commotion was beginning to ripple through the ranks now, starting from closer to the riverbank. Jon narrowed his eyes, spotting the tell-tale cloud of dust on the horizon. He picked up his shield from where it had been resting on the ground, not bothering to make an excuse when he noticed that Oberyn was sobering up at the sight as well. A dust cloud that large usually meant an army of some size was marching. Jon left Oberyn and his daughters as they left to prepare the Martell forces as Jon made for the Dayne forces.

Who could it possibly be that was marching towards them? It would be easy to say that it was the enemy, Aegon, and his forces but he was approaching from true north. For the enemy to be marching from that direction, they would have either had to have already taken Blackhaven, the true guardian fortress of the southern Stormlands, despite what the lord of this tiny keep would believe. Blackhaven was a true fortress with some of the best walls and defences that could be mustered.

Not great defences but considering the army was currently sitting in the middle of perhaps the driest part of the marshes, he might not have a good enough picture of the true marshes to decide if the defences suited the environment at least.

Edric was already positioning the men when Jon found him, forming four squares of five hundred spearmen in each square. As Jon watched the men positioned themselves and their spears so that every angle of approach was covered by the spears of the first few rows and the javelins of the rows behind them. It was a solid defensive tactic and left the thousand or so riders free to harass the enemy until they dashed themselves against the spear tips of the Dornish.

"Ser Tristian, take your men and harry the incoming forces, if they be foe. If they be friend, ride back with all haste."

The knight saluted Edric as Lord Dayne before mounting, half of the mounted men following in his wake. They would make a good harrying force if they the approaching forces were the enemy but wasn't a large enough force to be offensive or hostile towards approaching friendly forces. Jon stopped beside Edric, who was currently glaring at the dust cloud of the horizon that was quickly growing bigger, signalling that the host was getting much closer.

"The castle received no raven to say that Blackhaven had fallen." Edric declared before admitting, "On saying that, I doubt this place is really important enough to be one of the few ravens that would be sent by the maester there upon realising that the castle was lost. If, indeed, it has been lost."

That was the issue. There was literally no way of knowing what had happened so they were going to be forced to wait here until the host was within sight. Or at least until their banners were in sight. A quick glance told Jon that the Martell forces had adopted the same tactic as the Dayne's men, the spearmen forming a square and the riders at the ready to harry and push the enemy against the spears.

Seemed it was a Dornish thing, not just a Dayne thing.

"Good defensive line." he admitted to Edric, neither of them looking away from the horizon, "How big a force do you think?"

It was always guesswork when you were checking how big a force was by the dust cloud but it was something that men tended to do when they were waiting for the force to arrive. It cut down on nerves when they were just stood around waiting.

"Dust cloud that big? I don't know…" he shrugged a little bit, "I'd say it was the wrong side of ten thousand to be honest. And then I'd hope that I was wrong."

Yes, there was indeed a 'wrong side' of ten thousand men - any side that meant the enemy had more than ten thousand men honestly. Between the Martell forces and the Dayne forces, there'd still be a gap of six thousand men between their own forces and the enemy forces if they came at them with ten thousand men. To be honest, Jon would join Edric in muttering a quick prayer if they found themselves arrayed against an enemy force that benefited from such a large numeric advantage.

The silence stretched as the dust cloud grew in size with it proximity. Jon gripped the hilt of Red Rain tightly as he glared at the horizon, knowing that Edric was currently checking the lines to make sure the men were still ready for battle despite the waiting. Somewhere to the right flank of the assembled forces, the Martell forces, a song about a maiden, a snake and wet sand was being sung. He didn't doubt that was likely the results of Oberyn's presence within their ranks.

It was a decent enough method of keeping morale up.

Despite the attempts to keep the men calm, Jon knew that they would all be shifting slightly in their nervous behaviour. That was fine - it was expected. All that they could do was hold strong right up until one of the banners was revealed to them. The dust cloud was high now and some of the approaching forces could now be seen in the distance. It was a rather loose formation of both riders and footmen.

Now fighting demoralised and routing enemies was easy and normally would be met with cheers. But the first of the banners could just be made out now even across the distance. There weren't many houses with a black animal of a yellow background and the red banner flying next to it? No one within the amassed Dornish forces was going to be able to mistake that shade of red, with a slither of gold, for anything but a Lannister banner.

And all Jon could think right then? Shit. The Lannister banner may well be flying alongside the royal banner of House Baratheon but tell that to Prince Oberyn, who was yelling at his forces to hold their positioning. Almost like he didn't believe that forces riding under a Lannister banner, riding towards the Dornish border no less, could actually be allied forces. Although Edric was ordering the same… Curious, Jon rushed to where Oberyn was marching on over to Edric. He got there just in time to hear the end of a rather colour list of curses coming from Oberyn.

"Prince Oberyn, one of my riders returned after meeting with Ser Jaime Lannister." he confirmed in a stern voice, the tone he'd used to deal with unruly squires back in the Order, "He sent the rest of my riders onto harry the forces that routed Ser Jaime's men. It was a good command."

Oberyn growled, apparently blinded to the reasonable nature of the statement and the command because it had come from a Lannister,

"Do you not see Edric?" he countered, "The Lannister cub tries to usurp the command of your men from yourself! He ordered your riders when it was not his place to do so and his defeat leads the enemy right to our feet."

Jon knew immediately the Prince Oberyn had lost the argument. Edric was angry now at the improper address and the insinuation that someone like Jaime Lannister would be able to usurp the command he had over the Dayne men,

"Prince Oberyn, you will address me by the title I hold, as I address you." he replied swiftly, "Besides that, the command that Ser Jaime gave my men was sound. If I had been there myself I would have given the same command - my men will harry the enemy enough for the remains of Ser Jaime's host to make it to us and give us enough time to integrate them into our defensive position - do you disagree that this will put us in a better prepared position to face the Golden Company?"

Oh shit indeed… the Golden Company had routed a host lead by Kingsguard member Jaime Lannister and was chasing them this way. Oberyn looked annoyed but he was rapidly bringing his explosive anger back under control. It was still very visible though - it likely still would be when he was going to be in close proximity to a Lannister.

"It is a better position." he agreed with much reluctance before giving Edric an amused look before glancing at Jon, "You've trained your former squire rather well White Wolf. His bark is almost as loud as that of a wolf himself."

With a light smirk and a joking wink, Oberyn left to ready his own men to reposition to allow for the routed royal ghost to integrate with their forces. Even now the riders of the Lannister knight's host were approaching. Ser Jaime himself, his golden armour caked in mud and blood, trotted over on his horse, dismounting with much less grace than one would expected from a knight of his calibre. Taking pity on the knight, Jon passed the man his water canteen, which the Lannister knight took with a grateful expression that seemed rather strange on his face considering Jon had only ever seen him with a smug expression firmly attached. Then again, the knight did look absolutely exhausted, even though none of the blood seemed to be his own.

"My thanks Ser Jon…" his voice hoarse and tired as he turned to Edric, taking in Dawn's hilt with a slight widening of his eyes, "Well it's not such a bad day then after all… I get to see the new Sword of the Morning in action."

The Lannister chuckled a little to himself but no one else spoke as more of the thoroughly defeated forces moved to stand behind the fresh Dornish spearmen defensive lines,

"But still mostly a shit day." he admitted with a grimace, "The Golden Company have been sitting on the side lines for most of the invasion but that white haired sadist came over the water and has taken them for a walk it seems."

Sadist? Aegon was acting sadist enough on the field of battle for it to be remarked upon as overly vicious to the point of sadism? Maybe that was why Varys was pushing for the boy to be destroyed - if he was someone who had no control then he was someone that Varys would want done away with. Jon was under no delusions - the only reason Varys helped him was because he was predictable and easier to manipulate. Thankfully Varys focused on manipulating by way of giving his people what they wanted, not by threatening their destruction or the like.

Worked out better that way.

"The Golden Company is bad news enough but sadist? Why would you say that?" Jon asked, wanting to know more about Aegon Targaryen. Or the fake. Whichever he actually was in the end. Jaime grimaced,

"He captured our outriders and when we were preparing our line against his forces he tortured out outriders just out of arrow range." he grimaced, "Then he burned them alive. Kept saying something about how I'd 'woken the dragon'. I… I think he's targeting my host in particular because I'm the one leading it. Otherwise it wasn't anything too impressive, a few thousand men from the crownlands to reinforce the existing Stormlands forces in the area. But he really has it in for me it seems…"

Edric and Jon shared a look for a moment as they assessed both Jaime Lannister himself and the remains of the host he had led. There were no more Crownlanders trickling into their lines now, the numbers peaking around a hundred or so. Which meant they wouldn't be able to count on those men for much, even if they weren't just as tired as their commander. Edric swore as he remembered something,

"The outriders we sent out aren't going to be coming back are they?"

Jaime looked at Edric with a sad version of his usual expression,

"They'll be coming back but don't be surprised if you find out what burning human smells like today."


	26. Chapter 26

**AN - Within this chapter I answer the question that seems to capture the attention of most of my readers. I continue my own tradition of sweeping, tiresomely long, battles and brutal combat. Thank you again to my beta reader, Shinigami Merchant, for their hard work editing this chapter.**

 **Please enjoy.**

Fire and Blood

Jon had never really thought about the Golden Company, never had cause to, but now that they were arrayed before him he had to admit that they made for a rather impressive force. They were disciplined where other sellswords were unruly and they were uniform in their equipment and their armaments, also unlike their fellows.

They were resplendent in their golden armour, catching the sun to present shining rows of shields and pikes against their foes.

Unfortunately for Jon, he was one of those foes.

Strangely enough, this was the first time that he was actually going to be fighting against an army that actually looked like they knew what they were doing. The Ironborn had been disorganised and unaccustomed to fighting on land but the Golden Company made their gold marching against whole armies and defeating their foes. This was going to be a new kind of battle, one that he wasn't quite as ready for as he would have liked.

Their formations were simple, but they didn't need to be fancy to be effective, he knew. Several rows deep of nothing but golden shields and strong, long, pikes. Behind those ranks were thousands of archers, with all manner of bows, or so he had heard. Apparently some had the bows of Westeros, for increased range. Others had crossbows, for increased power against armour. And yet more had the faster bows from the East. Whichever bow they held, didn't matter too much - what mattered was that there were almost three thousand bowmen behind the ranks of pikemen.

Three thousand bowmen, armed with their bows of various designs and deadly arrows and bolts.

Two thousand pikemen, hiding behind their golden shields in their forest of deadly pikes and spears.

Three thousand footmen, proper shock troopers decked in golden armour with their shields at the ready, their swords and axes ready to cut down the Dornishmen.

Two thousand, near enough, assorted cavalry, ranging from heavily armoured knights with lances and longswords, to lightly armoured cavalrymen with curved swords for cutting down the men who broke.

And, the most impressive thing as far as Jon was concerned, a solid dozen elephants. The beasts were strong enough to stand up against steel when they were entirely unprepared but they were heavily armoured now. Dozens of archers rode atop the elephants, ready to rain down death from above even as the elephant tore through the lines of the enemy.

Again, Jon was rather annoyed that he was the enemy in this scenario, which meant he was going to have to find a way to fight back against the Golden Company. He was sure he could have come up with a decent enough strategy to take on the Company, provided they were just men. But they simply weren't - those elephants were a game changer. As far as Jon knew, they only way to take down an armoured elephant was to attack their legs until they fell, however in every account Sam Tarly had told him about over breakfast back in the Order there had been massive casualties for even one elephant. They were already outnumbered, they couldn't afford to take on the usual casualties for a fight against a war elephant.

The only blessing, as far as Jon could see, was that the Dornish held a slightly elevated position with the distance between themselves and the Company characterised by a weak, wide, river that lead up to a small hill where the front lines of the Dornish were firmly planted in place. It would make a huge difference when it came to battle between the infantry of the two forces, hopefully making the slope muddy enough to ruin the traction the Company's men would have on the ground, making them unsteady and therefore easy to defeat.

But they'd be foolish to lead with an infantry charge while the Dornish still held to their formations at the ridge of the small hill.

No, they'd use the elephants first, breaking their ranks and then they would march forwards - probably only close enough to pepper them with arrows first. Then they would advance again, their infantry and cavalry working together to mop up any of the remaining Dornish forces. Or, at least, that was what Jon would do - he seemed to be having no issues making up strategies for the Golden Company as they finalised their battle formations, but he was still having trouble thinking up strategies to beat them.

Shaking his head, Jon moved away from the edge of the hill, to where Edric and Oberyn were discussing possible plans with a weary Jaime Lannister hanging around them, looking more like he could do with a sleep than a strategy session. Jon quickly glanced at the formations they had so far. Their four thousand men were stretch out across the edge of the hill within their speared squares of five hundred each, barely five hundred light cavalry currently waiting behind the squares, ready to plug any gaps in the formation as they were needed.

Even now, Jon could see his decision to go without a horse was a good one. The horses of the cavalry were spooked already by the elephants, he didn't like to think about how long it would take them to break when the elephants were right up against them. The only creatures that looked more shaken up than the horses of the Dornish cavalry were the few hundred men that Ser Jaime had managed to keep from routing entirely, and they were positioned far behind the cavalry, to be used only when there was literally no other choice.

He doubted they'd even charge so by the time they were needed it would likely be too late. But that was a depressing line of thought to linger on and Oberyn was talking,

"I was a sellsword in Essos for some time…" he was telling Edric, "I have fought elephants before. They will charge to break up our ranks - we have to let them. When the elephant charges, keep the formation as long as possible before splitting away from it - then we attack with spears and javelins as it attempts to turn. My daughters brought several poisons with them that should be effective against the beasts."

Well thank the Old Gods and the New that someone had some idea about how to actually combat the beasts other than 'try and hack at their legs'. Sure, it turned out that their legs were the weak spot but at least this little piece of knowledge would keep their casualties down to more acceptable levels. As terrible a sentiment as it was, they needed their men alive because they were outnumbered by over two to one, not including the elephants.

The revelation that the Sand Snakes had brought enough poison for it to be a relevant weapon for four thousand men was… rather scary to be honest. He knew he had been annoying women renowned for their tendency to poison their foes but to have that much on hand? They must have been planning this, to offer their poisons to face the Golden Company with the other armies of Westeros at their back. The only problem was that the Golden Company was already here, leaving them incredibly outnumbered.

At least they'd be able to take some of the elephants with them.

Jon wasn't exactly thrilled with the idea of throwing his life away in the pursuit of giving the rest of the armies an easier battle against the Golden Company - he wanted to survive long enough to go back to the North after all. They were going to have to fight tooth and nail to get that kind of outcome though - each of the Dornishmen was going to have to kill at least two of the Golden Company men for this battle to actually go their way. And all the elephants too, all without letting too many of the Dornishmen themselves die… so no pressure at all.

Listen to him, he was beginning to sound as sarcastic as Ser Jaime usually was - only usually because right now the man just looked angry and tired. It was odd to see him as anything but the smug little pretty boy he normally was.

The sound of horns from across the river broke up the little planning session immediately, Oberyn rushing to the right flank, Edric to the centre and Jon himself to the left flank. Obara had already made her way into the same square of men he would be standing with, a barrel of the poison positioned within the square so that men could recoat their weapons as needed. Jon nodded to the warrior woman as he stepped up into the front row of the spearman, getting a clearer view of the Golden Company.

There was something new.

On the side of the river possessed by the Golden Company, a dozen or so wooden crosses had been erected. There were clearly men attached to the crosses and they appeared to be in different states of damage and clothing. Jon wasn't able to see them clearly enough at this distance to be able to recognise any of them but he didn't really need to - from what Jaime had told them they would be the cavalry that Edric had sent to delay their enemy's advance. There was utter silence as a single rider, clad in gleaming golden armour, made his way in front of the strung up men.

As the rider dismounted, smaller figures, who appeared to be slaves, began to clump wood beneath the crosses. The rider took off his helmet to reveal a pale face with the silver, white, hair of the Targaryen's clearly on display. Even from this distance, Jon could tell that he appeared thin and tall, but not overly so. He looked like everything people said Rhaegar Targaryen had looked like - and, strangely enough, what the Mad King looked like as well, in his youth at least. Made sense that a father looked like a son with that much incest involved in the family after all.

Though even from here Jon would be hard pressed to say that Aegon looked anything like the Martell's he had seen so far.

"Men of Dorne!"

The spearmen around Jon stiffened and Obara seemed to almost growl with pent up aggression at this point. Jon himself just listened. The voice wasn't a strong one but there was worryingly little ground that the voice actually needed to carry over so it didn't make too much difference. In fact, he might go so far as to say he was one of the only ones to actually hear the weakness in the man's voice,

"You hide an enemy of the Iron Throne - Jaime Lannister!"

More shuffling but no one seemed in a hurry to turn against the remaining Crownlander's and their Lannister commander. Considering a quarter of the Dornish forces were Martell forces, that was saying a lot about how badly this Aegon had read the situation and the political landscape of Westeros.

"He slaughtered his King! But have no fear… your true King has returned to you, my people!"

There were cheers from the Golden Company but there were none from the Dornish armies. The Targaryen Prince seemed to glare up at the defiant Dornish spearmen that peered down at him and his army from their small hill.

"Swear your allegiance to me or face the consequences!"

The consequences became clearer when the slaves set fire to the wood beneath the crosses, beginning to cook the captured men alive. Their screams cut through the silence of the moment and men in the Dornish ranks began to mutter and curse at the Targaryen Prince, who seemed to bask in the flames for a moment before ordering the prisoners put out of their agony with quick stabs from the slaves.

"Remember House Targaryen's words! Fire and Blood!"

The Golden Company took up the call of the Targaryen house words with a dull enthusiasm that was mostly offset by the fact that it was being repeated by around ten thousand different men, at least. He said at least because he didn't remember reading anywhere that the Golden Company had a company of slaves with them but there seemed to be evidence that they were there now. The Targaryen Prince mounted his horse again and raised his sword high into the air.

"What's say you, Men of Dorne? Will you bow to the Dragon again?"

That was a terrible choice of words.

Jon might not know much about Oberyn, his daughters or the men they had brought with them, but he remembered the house words of House Martell. Unbowed, unbent, unbroken. The Martell's did not bow to the Targaryen's, they were married into the family to tie them to the rest of Westeros - the knees of Martell's are not well suited to bowing, to either Stag or Dragon so the response from Obara, and the rest of the Dornishmen around him, was not unexpected.

"Unbowed! Unbent! Unbroken!"

As one the Dornish began to hammer their shields with their spears in time with the house words that were quickly becoming a cross between a war cry and a chant. Jon joined in with his sword against his shield even as he watched the Targaryen Prince gallop back to his main line, waving his sword in what was obviously a signal. Jon watched in alarm as the ranks of the Golden Company peeled away to the sides, letting a stream of unarmoured slaves, armed with short swords and the like, charge towards the Dornish.

They were fodder that much was clear. There were a good thousand slaves charging head-first, ready to give their lives for their masters, across the river now. Already they were trampling each other. Jon scowled,

"Change weapons!" he called out loudly, "Do not waste the poison! Do not waste it!"

Weapons that had not been poisoned, from the middle of the square, were passed to those of the edges of the squares. Even Jon had a spear thrust into his waiting hands once his sword was sheathed. Over to his right he could faintly hear Edric calling for the squares to flatten into a shield-wall along the ridge of the hill itself.

"Shield wall!" he cried out, stepping forwards up to the edge of the hill, "Break formation! Form a shield wall along the hill! FORM A SHIELD WALL!"

The Dornish might have square formation down to an art form for when fighting cavalry but never let it be said that they slacked at all when forming a shield wall. In fact, they seemed to be a lot denser than the Northern shield walls. The front row locked their shields together rather low and rested their spears pointing straight forwards, the second row covered the chest of the front row by locking their shields almost on top of theirs. Their spears slotted in between, jutting up around head height, one on either side of Jon's head considering he was currently squeezed into the middle of the first row. Other spears were rested higher, resting with their butts against the ground so they rose like a forest above the heads of the first and second rows.

Between the gaps in the shields, Jon could see the slaves throwing themselves across the river, reaching the bottom of the short hill. He blinked at the sound of a woman's laughter, turning slightly to see Obara braced beside him, laughing as she peaked between the shields as well. As if sensing he was watching, she turned to him with a manic-looking grin,

"They won't even dent our shields!" she crowed, "Let them come! Let them dash themselves against the defences of Dorne! Not her sands, not her keeps… her merciless defenders! Unbowed! UNBENT! UNBROKEN!"

Each shout of her father's house words was repeated by the men surrounding them, getting even Jon to join in. The deafening repetition of the words did wonders to mask the light thundering of the slaves' feet against the ground as they stormed the hill. When the slaves hit they hit not as a wave but as a solid force that slammed against Jon's shield and against his raised spear.

Even behind his shield, braced as he was, Jon slid back slightly before securing his footing. There was more than one body on his spear he was sure. Each time a body was forced onto the spear by one of the other slaves pushing forwards with futility and desperation. No doubt they were told grand tales of freedom based on how well they performed in their given suicide run. Jon wouldn't be surprised if this was the Golden Company's answer to the issue of people using poison against their elephants - soak up all the poison with disposable slaves until there was no solid threat to the elephants anymore.

Gods damn it, why did he keep coming up with good strategies for the enemy while still not being able to do much of a damn thing about stopping them?

With a grunt, Jon pushed back with his shield, unbalancing at least one slave who, if the screams were any indication, was then immediately trampled by his fellow attackers. Thrusting forwards with his spear, Jon was rewarded with a strong cry. Pulling back, he blindly thrust again and again with his spear, tearing through flesh of new victims and those already attached to the spear.

The slave charge was supposed to be a distraction, a tiring method and something to soak up the poison from the weapons. They were never expected to break through and, as expected, the pressure on Jon's shield began to lessen before he was lifted entirely as the remaining slaves began their retreat. Standing from his position, Jon dropped his shield to the ground in his hurry to snatch up a javelin from one of the few dead Dornishmen.

Lining the slope of the small hill was a mass of slave corpses, men that had been completely unprotected and those literally torn apart by the steel of the Dornish defenders. Picking their way through their own dead, the remainder of the slave forces were fleeing back to the ranks of the Golden Company. Already, there were elephants making their way across the river, their trunks and tusks covered in blades that tore through the slaves unlucky enough to be anywhere near them. Jon gritted his teeth - the Golden Company had only sent in six of their dozen war elephants and it might well prove to be more than enough yet.

He hefted the javelin into his sword hand, hoping to the gods that it was one of the poisoned weapons,

"JAVELINS!" he cried, pulling his arm back in preparation for a throw, happy that the men seemed to have come to the same decision as him, "LOOSE!"

Almost every man threw a javelin on the mark, meaning at least a few hundred javelins were loosed on his command. Though the elephants were far taller than any man could ever hope to be, the terrain favoured the Dornish, giving them a slight elevation that worked well with the arc of their javelins. Whether it was luck or some small mercy of the gods, the javelins flew fast and true. One of them scored near enough a perfect hit, pinning the rider's leg to the left side of the elephant's neck. The elephant turned with what it interpreted as instructions, turning left and slamming into the flank of one of the elephants charging at Edric's centre.

The two beasts turned on each other, tusk blades gouging into each other as they lost traction in the blood, mud and corpses, slamming into each other and collapsing even as their riders screamed and their archers fell before being crushed under the weight of the beasts they had ridden atop.

Leaving one elephants for both Jon's side of the army and one for Edric's centre - unfortunately it appeared at a glance that the Martell forces had much less luck in routing their beasts and would be facing two at a time. No time to be discussing any of that now though, they still had one very angry elephant charging at them at a speed that Jon could only compare to how fast the Iron Victory had cut through the water with favourable winds.

"TO THE SIDES!" he roared even as the elephant crested the hill, metal-encrusted tusks flying from side to side, cutting into the Dornishmen unfortunate enough to be unable to dive to the side in time. Jon himself dove perhaps a little too late, the blades of one of the tusk-swings waving over his head as he fell, eviscerating one of the unfortunate Dornishmen to such a degree that Jon was showered in the man's blood and struck in the face by one of the man's torn arms.

He pulled himself up to his feet frantically as the elephant has passed him fully now, tearing a bloody swathe through their ranks despite the warning to jump away from the beast. It was reaching the rear of the ranks and, according to Oberyn, this was their opportunity. The beast was turned away from them, exposing its rear to their weapons but none of the men seemed up for charging it right now and if they didn't take this opportunity the beast was going to turn and charge them again.

They couldn't take one more charge.

"Get up… we need to get up…" he muttered to himself, dragging a whimpering spearmen up by his arm, "GET UP! GET UP AND STAB THE FUCKER! STAND! STAND UP YOU CRAVENS!"

Jon bodily pulled a few of the men up until they seemed to get the idea, rallying to him as he pushed himself against his fear. Drawing Red Rain, he held it high as he charged forwards, running between the crushed corpses and massive footprints that told the story of the beast's movements. To his right Obara was rallying other men even as he was leading his own charge. He gritted his teeth,

"Remaining javelins LOOSE!"

A dozen or so of the wooden spears flew above his head, slamming into the tough hide of the beast, a few embedding themselves in the grey flesh even as other shattered against the chain armour. An answering hail of arrows came from the archers atop the beast, the sound of whistling air letting Jon know that more than a few had been aimed at himself. Ignoring both his instinctive fear of the beast and of the arrows, Jon flung himself at the beast even as it began its slow turn, raising Red Rain high above his head in an overhead stab that tore deep into the elephant's rear left leg.

The closest thing Jon knew to the scream of an elephant was a trumpet note played perfectly by a dozen or more people at the same time. Gritting his teeth, Jon withdrew his sword from the tough hide even as the elephant reared up on its rear legs in pain, no doubt causing more pain in its blind throes of agony by standing on the wounded leg. More javelins hammered into the side of the elephant, several embedding themselves deep into the meat there.

The elephant swayed slightly and Jon was soon joined by the Dornishmen, stabbing into the beast's softer underbelly with their spears. Many of the spears snapped when the elephant landed upon all four feet again but many more were driven even further into the beast. Obara charged forwards with her spear held tightly in both hands. Rather than aim for the weakened flank, she recklessly charged forwards at the front of the beast. Jon wasn't about to let one of Oberyn's children die due to their sheer disregard for their own mortality… not when he was within beating range of the prince at least.

"AGAIN! BRING IT DOWN!"

Some of the spearmen had stood idle when their spears had been broken or lodged in the beast and his barked order broke them out of their stupor and they set upon the beast with their daggers or their swords or whatever was to hand at the time. Death by a thousand tiny cuts would have worked out well enough but Jon was aware of Obara's charge to its front. As he watched the woman stood between the panicked elephant's tusks, stabbing her spear upwards into its suddenly unprotected neck. There was a strangled sound as the weapon pierced the creature's throat, the death blow if ever there was one.

Obara left her spear lodged in the elephant's throat and leapt back to avoid the tusks being shaken around as the elephant lost its stability. Letting out an incomprehensible shout that meant 'run' on an instinctive level, Jon withdrew from the elephant's body as it began to fall. By the time it did fall, the archers atop the beast were out of arrows and hadn't managed to actually hit many people due to their moving platform. With one last, shuddering, step, the elephant died, falling to its side and crashing to the earth with a thunderous clap, mixed with the snapping of bones for those dead, and alive, that happened to be trapped underneath its prestigious bulk.

The archers were exposed.

Jon charged forwards for the platform that had been erected on the elephant's back and had now spilled its 'precious cargo' on the ground. With a roar, Jon stamped on the head of one of the dazed archers, driving his armoured boot through his unprotected face, shattering teeth and the skull on the man even as he stabbed down with his sword, impaling another archer in the chest, no doubt tearing his lungs and heart apart with the Valyrian steel. The Dornish were beginning to join in now, stabbing down at their vulnerable attackers with their spears. Jon himself disembowelled another of the helpless archers as he took stock of the battleground around him with wide eyes, the adrenaline pumping through him as it always did when he got into battle like this.

Their elephants were down, obviously, and it appeared that Edric's central forces had managed to defeat their own as well. There was still one fighting against the Martell forces under Oberyn's command but it seemed to be unsteady on its feet, staggering forwards with no real threat behind its actions. Likely the poison that John had unfortunately not had time to have his own men prepare to use in the correct dose no doubt. Some of the men that had been left near the edge of the hill were waving quickly for his attention.

No time to celebrate it seemed, there was more killing to be done.

Jon raised his bloody sword high above his head, rallying the men to him as he began to jog back to the original front lines. A few of the captains within the army rallied their own men until the remainder of Jon's host was following to the front again, despite wanting to celebrate the deaths of the elephants that had so recently decimated their formations and their friends. Reaching the front of the line, Jon scowled at the sight before him.

The pikemen of the Golden Company, their formation absolutely perfect, were advancing with shields raised and pikes at the ready. Their weapons were longer than those of the Dornishmen as well – if they fought them in their actual formations then they were going to lose. Obara came up to him as he was thinking. She opened her mouth to speak, no doubt some form of boast by the way her mouth wanted to smirk, but Jon grabbed her by the edge of her armour,

"The poison... is it flammable? Like tar, can the fire be weaponised?"

"No."

"Is it deadly to breathe its fumes?"

There was a pause that answered Jon well enough, her quick nod confirming it. It also explained why the men in charge of dipping the weapons into the poison had done so while holding rags over their noses, just in case. So if they set fire to the poison then the fumes it produced would be poisonous – enough to deal with several thousand pikemen? Probably not.

But they didn't have to deal with all of them.

All they needed to do was break the formation, then the pikemen would find themselves scattered, their defences broken and their weapons far too large to be effective against the men with short swords. Sure, the pikemen no doubt had short swords of their own but by the time they thought to draw them it would already be too late, provided the plan actually managed to work that was.

"MEN! Pour the poison into your helms! Do it now!"

The order went up and down the host on the left flank, the one he was responsible for in this battle. Jon himself grabbed a helm from one of the dead and nodded in approval as a small line of grass in front of the men was set on fire, allowing every man in the front line the ability to set fire to their concoction. Jon stood close to the centre of the front line, watching the perfect phalanx formation of the approaching pikemen drawing ever closer. He took a deep breath as he snatched up some dry grass, setting the end alight with the flames in front of him,

"LIGHT!"

Setting the concoction alight was rather easy, what was rather concerning was that the fumes immediately began to raise, an inky black smoke that clutched at the air as if trying to find someone to latch onto. Jon did his best not to breathe it in at all but he still managed to get enough of it to immediately start stinging his eyes.

"THROW!"

Most of the men likely didn't get a good enough arch on their throw to actually get the helms into the ranks of the pikemen but their front lines were half way up the slope now so gravity would roll the helms to their enemies just fine. Almost immediately the first few ranks of the enemy were almost obscured from sight, the coughing and the screaming starting pretty much straight away. Gritting his teeth, Jon held his sword in his right hand and his axe in his left, his shield now safely stored on his back.

"DRAW SWORDS!"

The Dornishmen followed his command with surprisingly little resistance, leaving their spears behind as they drew their swords instead, some of them taking some of the weapons from the slave wave earlier. Wouldn't matter that they weren't up to the same quality as Jon's weapons – a rusty knife would kill a man just as good as a Valyrian steel blade would, provided you managed to stick them with the pointy end.

Gaps in the fumes began to show, the wind picking up the fumes and, mercifully, blowing them further into the ranks of the enemy. But with the gaps in the fumes, Jon could see what he had wrought upon the pikemen of the Golden Company.

Their front rows were a mess, shields dropped entirely and some barely held upright by men that were coughing up so much of their blood that they appeared to be drowning in it. Blood streamed down from their helms where their eyes would be. It was a grisly sight to be sure but Jon couldn't bring himself to care at all right now. They were the enemy and the enemy deserved no quarter, even if he could already tell that his own men were looking at him as if he was some kind of monster.

Maybe he was – it didn't matter.

"MEN OF HOUSE DAYNE!" he roared, sword held high, "FOR THE DAWN! CHARGE!"

Jon was the first man to charge through the fire, over the lip of the hill and down the slope towards the enemy. The fumes were mostly gone now but that same stinging sensation filled his eyes for a second before he pushed further down the slope, back into clearer air. Roaring like the Direwolves of House Stark, Jon threw himself forwards as fast as his armoured form could move, stabbing a poisoned man in the gut with so much force that the two of them fell to the ground, the man pinned to the dirt with the sword through his guts.

Lashing out with his axe, Jon cut a man's leg off at the knee, causing the man to fall to the ground in a spin of blood and cries to gods that couldn't care less. Pulling himself up to his feet, Jon withdrew his sword from his first victim, slashing up to cut a man's face in half even as he scrambled for his short sword. Someone lunged with a pike, a sloppy strike that Jon dodged and shattered the pike with his axe when he was free from its path. He didn't bother trying to find the man who had attacked him – it was pointless when you were in the middle of the melee as he was right now.

Blocking an overhead slash from a short sword with Red Rain, he lashed out with his axe, half-cutting and half-collapsing the man's throat. Either way, he coughed up some more blood as he choked, falling to the ground where he disappeared under golden boots. The formation was well and truly fucked now, as far as Jon let himself see in the space of a single second before forcing himself to continue the fight.

Stabbing a retreating man in the knee from behind with his sword, Jon pinned him in place long enough for his axe to separate the top half of the man's skull from the rest of it. It was all beginning to blur together, a parry and an answering stab there, a split skull here… the blood rage was beginning to seep into him. It was as his father had always described, it was like becoming one with your weapons and being able to ignore any and all signs of pain and fatigue. It was far from someone the Northmen were alone in possessing but it was said to be stronger in the blood of the first men than the blood of the Andals. Maybe it was, it didn't matter.

Roaring in an inarticulate rage, Jon threw his axe, charging forwards when it buried itself in the spine of one of the retreating pikemen. Falling to his knees, Jon tore the axe free from his foe's back before smashing his skull apart with the weapon, huffing out a great breath as he stood to his feet again, covered in blood and mud and still feeling the drumbeat of his heart, his blood roaring in his ears.

"White Wolf!"

Jon snapped his head to the side, axe and sword both raised for battle. He lowered them only when he confirmed he was seeing Obara and not another enemy to challenge him. He spat a mixture of blood, mud and spit onto the ground as he pulled himself forcibly from the battle rage he had descended into. Obara seemed to be watching him like one would a deadly animal.

He supposed the snakes feared the Direwolves too.

Wiping away some of the vile mixture from his face with his hand, Jon took stock of his surroundings. The left flank of the Golden Company's pikemen had completely folded, hundreds of the men dead and many more hundreds fleeing even now. Jon's own forces had taken a hammering as well but for the most part seemed about as intact as when they had downed the elephant.

Still, less than a thousand Dornishmen called the left flank their home right now and there were still thousands of enemies left to face them.

Both Edric and Oberyn's forces were engaged in shield wall battles with the remaining pikemen, with little success. Oberyn had diverted some of his force to flank the engaged pikemen however, weakening the opposition to the right flank of the enemy no doubt. Of course Edric's centre was still under a tremendous amount of pressure, being unable to flank as Oberyn had done and unable to use the poison gas as Jon had done.

He pointed to the exposed flank of the centre mass of pikemen that were currently engaged with Edric's men. There were a few on the side that were trying to prepare to repel the forces from Jon's side of the battlefield but, for now, they were very disorganised,

"Obara!" he snapped, gaining her attention immediately, "Take half the men and form phalanx, march it right up against the flank of the centre mass of pikemen! Quickly, before they regroup!"

She didn't even argue, which Jon found a little bit strange but he didn't have time to comment on it before she was away, rallying the majority of the forces to face the exposed side of the enemy's remaining pikemen. Jon's job, however, would not be as easy as Obara's flanking manoeuvre.

The Golden Company had cavalry, both heavy and light, that they had held in reserve. This was exactly the point he would bring out his own cavalry if the shoe had been on the other foot, meaning that was likely how the Golden Company's commanders would see it as well. He gathered up the remaining forces at his disposal, some three hundred or so tired Dornishmen.

"Pikes! Gather up the pikes and shields of the dead!" he commanded, "I want two hundred of you covering the rear and flank of Obara's push into the enemy! Dig in deep, prepare for cavalry counter attack!"

Those selected immediately moved to do as he had commanded and the rest waited nervously for his command. He didn't blame them for being nervous, even now he could see the signal flags being raised and the cavalry being moved into position. He dragged himself back to the here and now,

"Find whatever you can, broken pikes, shorter pikes, and spears, whatever you can find. Grab whatever you can and spike the ground behind us – remember! High enough to kill the mount! With the mount dead the rider will be helpless!"

The men hurried to carry out his orders but Jon worried that it was going to be too little too late. They were on the defensive now simply because they didn't have the numbers or the advantage to go on the offensive as things stood right now. They'd managed to turn the momentum of the battle on the left flank, with Jon's own charge, and that was no small feat against such a disciplined force as the Golden Company. But there were still thousands of pikemen still in play, not to mention a reserve force of heavy infantry, archers and cavalry of both heavy and light varieties.

The momentum was gone and in order to do as well as they had done so far the Dornishmen had been forced to charge down the hill to meet their foes, meaning the terrain wasn't in their favour anymore either. If you ignored the pikemen then the only thing separating the Dornish from the rest of the Golden Company was the shallow river and a few hundred yards.

Not exactly the best odds but Jon knew that the Dornish would be able to make the Golden Company work for it at least – didn't make being in the losing side of such a battle any more attractive an option though.

The front facing forces had finished getting into position and the stakes were coming along nicely when the horn cut through the din of battle. Jon didn't even need to look up to see what it signified – the cavalry of the Golden Company was likely making its move now, ready to encircle them if they were ambitious but certainly so they could strike at their flanks. Even with their numbers, the cavalry would be unlikely to make their way entirely around the Dornish – both sides knew that the Crownlanders were recovering over the crest of the hill. If the cavalry encircled them then they would quickly find vengeful Crownlanders falling upon them from behind, trapping them entirely and crushing them against two sets of infantry from different angles.

Jon stepped up to the front of the lines, noting how the men seemed to watch the dreaded movement of over two thousand horsemen with a fear that was almost palpable. The host of mounted men split roughly in half, the heavy and light cavalry mixed, to give one attack to the left flank at the same time as a second attack hammered at the right flank. Gods be good but Jon didn't think Oberyn had had chance to take the same precautions that he had managed to make.

His axe stowed at his waist, Jon held his bright red sword and his shield at the ready. Licking his lips a little bit, Jon tried to ignore how the ground seemed to vibrate with the thundering hooves heading their way. Jon could feel his throat drying up as he gripped his sword tighter, ready to go down swinging if the barrier broke down due to the charge. They might have pikes and shields but even they would lose their effectiveness when faced with literally hundreds of horsemen slamming into the defences all at once.

One piece of good fortune however… riding close to the centre, far from the front rows of horsemen, was a single rider wearing the same armour as the Targaryen Prince from before. Only difference was a new helm, a golden helm with three dragons rising from the top of the armour. Jon couldn't help but grin a little bit.

The Targaryen Prince hadn't proven himself in battle – he NEEDED to be a part of the charge. Of course nowhere did it say he had to be leading it from the front he supposed. Still… an opportunity not to be missed.

"Ten gold dragons to the man who brings down the mount of the 'prince'!" he called out to his men with more than a little bit of false bravado, "I'll give you my Valyrian Steel sword to the man who unmans the fucker with their spear!"

A cheer rose up from the men, their morale temporarily lifted even as the first row of horse crossed the river, barrelling down at them at top speed. Jon gritted his teeth as the horses thundered ever closer, pulling himself against his own fear in order to rally the men one last time with the words of Dorne,

"UNBOWED!"

The last of the horses was past the water, only the few yards of mud between them and the horses.

"UNBENT!"

He could swear he could see the whites of the horses' eyes now.

"UNBROKEN!"

The cavalry smashed into the line of shields and pikes with a visceral force that almost seem to shake the earth beneath Jon's own feet. Screams of horses and men dying filled the air, some of the riders were urging their mounts away, determined to wind back up for another shot at the shields.

Unfortunately two of the knights had made it over the shields and pikes and into the zone behind it. Fortunately, Jon was there for just such a reason. Acting quickly, his sword flashed out, cutting both of the front legs of one horse out from under it, even as it was beginning its landing. The beast crumpled forwards, taking its rider with it until both beast and man landed in a heap across from Jon.

The man's neck wasn't supposed to bend that way so he chalked it up to death from impact.

The second beast managed to get its feet back under it and its rider swung a strong sword swing at Jon's neck. Ducking backwards, Jon avoided being made a head shorter and had the opportunity to stab up, the sharp tip of his sword punching through the armour around the knight's neck, doing very little to protect him in the end. Reaching up, Jon grabbed the man by the arm as he choked on the blade now halfway through his neck. With a roar, he threw the corpse from his mount, withdrawing his blade from the dead man as he did so.

Noticing that the horse was too spooked to be of any use to him, Jon growled in frustration before lashing out with Red Rain, taking the beast's life quickly with a slash across its throat that cut the damn thing down to the bone. A few of the horsemen had worked their way around the shield wall, doubtlessly seeking a way to attack them from the rear. Instead they were struck down by the spikes that had been set up and the few men Jon had left to guard the rear in case the defensive spikes failed.

Of course it could be that the knights were wise enough to know that they weren't going to be able to crack this defensive position with only horsemen alone as they were already pulling back. Jon peered over the shield wall and swore to himself as he witnessed the archers, all those thousands of archers, moving up closer,

"ARCHERS!" he cautioned the men even as he took up the shield of one of the knights he had killed, "Angle your shields higher! Bunch tight together! Cover yourself and the man to you side! Your real shield, your protection, is the man stood beside you! DEFEND!"

The arrows were loosed.

Jon knelt down on the ground by the corpse of the horse. It was a big beast, meaning that it would serve well to partially cover the front of his lowered form even as he held the kite shield high to protect his head and torso. He didn't dare look up into the sky to see the weapons of the enemy descending upon him and his men - he didn't need to. The sun was lowering in the sky now due to how long the battle had been going for now, but the massive shadow that the weapons cast in their path was unmistakable, even with the longer shadows of the evening.

All he could hear was men muttering to their gods to protect them and the whistling sound of thousands of arrows rushing through the winds towards them. And then…? Then the screaming started.

Not everyone was screaming of course, not everyone had been hit. Thuds and other such noises sounded more frequently, the arrows and bolts slamming home into the wood and metal of shields and armour. Jon's own arm shook with the continued barrage of missiles that slammed against the shield, several points showing through the shield's wood and metal, one of which would have taken his thumb is he hadn't been wearing armour.

The horse's body was being pulped by the missiles and Jon didn't like to think about how the lessening of the screams suggested that some of the injured men were suffering much the same fate.

It seemed to take forever but the missiles stopped, leaving an uneasy silence hanging in the air as the Dornish tried to gather themselves either for the second wave of missiles or for the advance of the cavalry or heavy infantry. At this point they still had their shields and spears so a cavalry charge would be ill-advised - the heavy infantry of the Golden Company, however, was still fresh and much better equipped for man-to-man fighting in the melee of the front lines. The Dornish had short swords and spears, giving them a last line of defence against other infantry but the Golden Company's men could count on stronger armour, axes and longswords.

The remaining pikemen that had been penned in by Obara, Oberyn and Edric had fallen back before the missiles could rain down, meaning that the Dornish army was actually capable of regrouping for the first time since the battle had actually started. Of course currently everyone was hiding behind their shields so if they were going to regroup they were going to need a little kick up the arse.

Standing, his knees hurting slightly from how he had been kneeling to protect himself, Jon lowered his shield, noting how dozens of arrows covered the wooden surface. Yet more littered the ground and the corpses of men who hadn't managed to guard themselves well enough. His flank had managed to protect themselves well enough but some of the pikemen had been abandoned during the withdrawal, meaning that Edric's centre had to keep their shields front to mop up the trapped forces.

Which meant they were unprotected against the missiles of the Golden Company's archers, leading to heavy casualties as far as he could see. Oberyn's flank had fared better that Edric's men but still not as well as Jon's own men had prepared. They needed to regroup as the cavalry were already beginning to wind up for another charge, moving further away to allow their mounts enough distance to reach their top speeds. Jon raised his sword high again, pointing towards the centre of the army,

"FORM UP ON CENTRE! FORM SQUARE ON CENTRE!" he roared, moving towards Edric's men as he did so, more men hurrying to follow him, "PREPARE FOR CAVALRY CHARGE - FORM SQUARE! ARCHERS CENTRE! SPEARS ON EDGE! FORM SQUARE!"

Gods damn it he wished they'd had chance to actually train together with the full army. Then they'd be able to use signal flags for these manoeuvres, rather than shouting the commands out to the sergeants and hoping the same order got filtered down to every grunt in the gods-damned army. The delay was going to cost them that much was certain as far as Jon was concerned.

Those cavalry would be turning back on them soon after all.

Arriving at the centre, Jon was hurried towards the middle of the growing square of men, being pushed to move faster as the square's sides extended as men from both his own flank and Oberyn's came in, bolstering the ranks as they did so. As he approached the centre of the square he almost swore at seeing Edric sat down on the ground, a man worrying over the arrow lodged in his friend's left shoulder, having slipped past the seams of his armour at the shoulder. He grinned up at Jon with a slightly pale face,

"They even paint their arrows gold, Jon."

They did, in fact, colour their arrows it seemed. Not that it helped Edric much. Jon sighed a little bit, patting Edric on his non-injured shoulder and giving his friend a nod, which was returned. He glanced at the man attempting to remove Edric's armour to get to the wound,

"You cover him as well as you can." he commanded the man acting as maester and some of Edric's personal guard, "Keep an eye out for arrows - he's caught enough of them for one day wouldn't you say?"

With that he moved away, closer to the edge of the square. They'd taken a beating from the slave rush, the pikemen, the cavalry and then the archers. The square was a massive number of men already, close to one thousand men, but there were only a few stragglers outside the square now - meaning that around one thousand men was their remaining strength while he wouldn't be surprised if the Golden Company was still at least six to seven thousand strong.

Disheartening.

"Get those stragglers inside the square!" he snapped, some of the sergeants who had taken to following him bellowing the order so that it spread throughout the men. Jon scowled at the growing cloud of dust approaching them from the side with the most stragglers, "CAVALRY CHARGE! BRACE!"

The side of the square locked up with shields and spears presented, barring the way for both the cavalry and for those trapped outside the square. If they were outside the square now, there was no helping them. They wouldn't open up the defences without weakening the entire defences as a whole, opening them up for a strong cavalry charge to rout them. Despite protocol some of the men closet to the shields were dragged within the lines quickly but many, some hundreds, were outside the shields still when the cavalry slammed into them.

Mounted knights and lighter cavalry ran down the stragglers, making sure to stay clear of the spear tips of the square. Jon swore a little bit under his breath as he watched men being run down and butchered by the mounted men of the Golden Company. There was no mercy for those outside the square's protection. Jon watched the men being run down and routed in silence for a moment before turning away, moving through the ranks as he did so,

"Every rank is to have shields. Second rank covers the head of the first and so on." he ordered, "Last rank is to overlap as much as possible. We can expect another volley within minutes so go!"

The second volley didn't even taken minutes to be sent their way. The same whistling sound of thousands of missiles filled the air again, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end,

"SHIELDS HIGH! SHIELDS HIGH!"

Surprisingly that wasn't Jon shouting, Oberyn had beat him to the punch as it were. The man was actually covering the other side of the square from what Jon could see, keeping command over the Martell forces. Probably for the best as it would have been very dangerous to have them each trying to bark orders at the whole of the army - some part was bound to not want to obey one of them but the two of them? That was less likely.

Jon himself locked ranks with the men around him, shield held high and slightly forwards to help cover the man in front of him as the same was done for himself.

There was a sound like a thousand horses' hooves on stone road as the arrows and bolts once again rained down on the Dornish. Jon swore lightly as one of the bolts bit hard into his shield, continuing on to actually punch his wrist through his armour. The armour held and the bolt was stuck halfway through the shield but it still hurt about as much as an armoured punch from a stronger man would have done.

If that was the worst he suffered today then he would count himself as blessed by the Old Gods and the New!

What really got to him right now wasn't the sight of the men being run down and it wasn't the arrows pelting down at them. It was the shadows of the setting sun that bothered him the most. When the battle lines had been drawn it has been close to mid-day – an admittedly terrible time to be fighting anywhere close to Dorne, even its most northern reaches. But now the sun was beginning to descend. The battle must have been over five hours old at this rate and it was beginning to take its toll now, his arms becoming heavier and his body weaker.

With every clash of weapons and every life that the Gods wagered against his own he was getting more and more tired, getting closer to making the mistake that would doom him to die on this foreign field. Jon wasn't in a hurry to die but he knew that it came for all men. He would just much prefer that he lived long enough to die, and be buried, in the land of his ancestors.

Bury him in the shade of Brandon's Wall! Not in the heat and the dust of Dorne.

Accepting that his own death looked to be a certainty… it caused something akin to rage to swell inside his chest. Similar to rage, it seemed to fuel his limbs and warm him with an inner fire. It was familiar. It was a fire his father had instilled in him many years ago. It was a flame that warmed him in the snows of the North, a warmth that staved off the chill of the seas of Pyke and it was the strength that would see him through this bloody field and all its death.

Gritting his teeth, Jon threw the shield from his arm once the volley was completed, surprising more than a few of his comrades. He gripped his sword tightly in his right hand, drawing his axe with his left,

"MEN OF DORNE!"

Men turned to him, the silence after the volley gone, shattered by the sound of his voice. Hundred turned to him and perhaps the entire thousand strained to hear him as he held his sword aloft,

"WATCH! WATCH AS YOUR ENEMY APPROACHES!"

True to Jon's words, the heavy infantry of the Golden Company was moving into position, the failure of both the cavalry and the archers leaving only their direct combat as a viable option. Of course the cavalry were circling, led by that pompous golden prince of theirs. They were pinning them in place to give time for the infantry to form up in such a way as to encircle them.

Wouldn't be hard; considering they had roughly three thousand infantry to the scant thousand of the Dornish and that was discounting any of the pikemen having been rearmed and rallied again for this assault. So roughly four thousand to the thousand Dronish – one times their number in any direction by the time the enemy were done. Only upside was that they were encircled, odd as that sounded considering how terrifyingly final being encircled really was.

It was an upside because now each and every man within the square was going to fight to the death, there was no escape open to them after all. He wouldn't put it past the cruel dragon prince to be wanting to slaughter them all to send some kind of message. If he was listening to his military advisors though, he would know that it would be easier on his own men to let them rout and then chase them down with the cavalry. But that didn't make for a very good cautionary tale now did it?

No one would have remembered House Reyne or Tywin Lannister if the man hadn't immortalised his victory over them in song and it frightened men half the world over. People refused to even consider fighting the Lannister's because of the Reyne's and the Tarbeck's. This Targaryen Prince needed his version of the two houses for the story about him that men would whisper in fear – and it seemed he hoped to turn House Dayne and the Red Viper into his Reyne's and Tarbeck's.

But the Reynes and Tarbecks had been so soundly defeated that there was no other conclusion to draw than it had been sheer folly for them to challenge the Lannister's. Jon would ensure that even if House Dayne's male line ended here today on the tip of the dragon's claws, the world would know that it hadn't been a clean victory. That the dragon had been wounded, it's talons blunted and its wings torn.

"I AM NOT A DORNISHMAN! I AM OF THE NORTH!" he roared to make himself heard, claiming the attention of the men even as they kept their positions and watched as they were encircled, "BUT WE ARE THE SAME! OUR KNEES DO NOT BEND SO EASILY – WE WILL NOT BOW TO THE GOLDEN DRAGON! LET ALL OF WESTEROS KNOW THAT HOUSE DAYNE AND HOUSE MARTELL… DO NOT BOW TO FOOLS! LET US TAKE PAYMENT FOR THE MAN'S FOOLISHNESS IN THE BLOOD OF HIS MEN!

He didn't know if that would be enough.

The men realised that they were likely to all die here, boxed in by their enemies on all sides now. But a man who knew he was about to die could still be brave – he could still fight with the desperate strength of someone latching onto any kind of hope that he would live to see the next day. Because after all, all they had to do was either kill enough of the enemy to convince the foolish "Golden Dragon" to flee the field or destroy their numerically superior enemy utterly.

Nothing too difficult.

Of course if the Golden Company sent in their remaining elephants now… then they would likely win within the hour. The Dornish forces were on the defensive, entirely contained within a square, a good charge with the elephants would reduce this defiance to nothing more than a mopping up exercise for the infantry. Of course, again, that didn't make for a good song. Not when the number of war elephants within Westeros was limited to the number the Golden Company had brought with them, meaning that replacing them was not feasible.

No, he doubted they had to worry about the most efficient way of dispatching them becoming an issue.

The Dornish were chanting and screaming, getting themselves as worked up as they could as the encirclement began to slow tighten, the infantry of the Golden Company marching towards them in time, weapons at the ready. Jon knew the tactic – they would advance slowly, pushing the Dornishmen into backing up until they were crushing each other in their attempts to stay away from the tip of the enemy's weapons. It was a very effective tactic, one that Jon and Edric had used to great effect with the Lords of Winter when facing groups of wildlings that had made it south of the Wall.

It had worked well against the Wildlings because they had no idea how to counter the tactic, had likely never seen it used properly before either. But that same level of slaughter wasn't going to be happening today – both Jon and Edric knew that to fight back against the strangling technique they had to force their men to charge outwards at their enemy with enough strength to break through the first ranks on all sides.

At least then they had an incredibly slim chance of breaking the encirclement and living to fight another day. Or, much more likely, at least being able to die while standing tall against their foes and not trampled to death by their allies.

The noose was tightening.

Jon didn't have a lot of energy left in him right now but it didn't much matter – he was going to throw every last scrap of himself into their battle. There wasn't room to hold anything back, to save some 'in reserve' or whatever. If he held back he would die for certain. And if he went all out and killed as many as he could then maybe the Gods would at least pity him enough to keep him from ending up in whatever form of Hell he was currently destined for.

Pushing his way to the front of the lines on one side of the square, Jon growled at the enemy as they advanced as one.

"White wolf!"

He couldn't tell where Obara was within the mass of Dornishmen and he didn't break his gaze from the enemy for even a second,

"What?"

Jon rolled his neck a little bit as he mentally prepared himself for the sheer folly he was likely about to engage in.

"I bet I kill more than you!"

What?

Okay that was just absurd. The woman was acting like this whole thing was just some massive game for one thing – as if there wasn't even the possibility of them not living past the next hour so not being able to compare 'score' as it were. And it was even more absurd because it was a fool's bet. He would obviously kill more than her.

"You'll lose that bet!" he shot back, "Especially because of one thing…"

There was a pause where she didn't respond, the Golden Company's infantry close enough now to hurl insults across the gap between the two forces. He gripped Red Rain tightly, the fear worming its way deeper into his heart – he would be a fool to be unafraid. But it was like his father had always said… a man could only be brave when he was afraid.

"Because I'm getting a head start!" he declared, forcing his legs to move, breaking out into a run without much warning, making it a few yards before he raised the general command, "FOR WINTERFELL!"

He didn't care that he was in Dorne, fighting alongside Dornishmen. He was Jon Whitewolf, formerly Snow, of Winterfell and of House Stark – if he was going to die today then he would do so honouring his House, his home and his family.

The charge caught on quickly and men on both sides let out their fear in angry shouts and roars as they rushed forwards to meet each other in the middle. Jon himself wasn't the fastest runner in the Dornish contingent so wasn't actually the first man to find himself amongst the enemy. He roared as he charged straight forwards, catching a man doing the same in his direction. Ducking to the side, Jon slashed out with his sword, cutting through the joints in the man's armour and his knee, taking the man's left leg out from under him with his deadly blade.

The man fell to the ground, screaming, but Jon didn't bother to finish him, moving on to the next challenger. Blocking a sword strike, Jon buried his axe in the man's gut, bending him at the waist and allowing him to slam his sword straight up into the man's visor, piercing the man's skull. With a grunt of effort he pushed the man to the side, using the corpse's weight to pull the body from the blade even as he rammed his shoulder into an enemy, putting him off balance and ruining his attack.

Jon didn't even have time to capitalise as a man from his right came screaming in with a massive, two handed, axe that almost took his arm. Dodging out of the way, he slashed forwards with Red Rain, growling in frustration when the large weapon's shaft blocked the blow. By now the first man was back in the battle, stabbing at Jon with his sword as the larger man flung his massive axe into a horizontal slash that would likely have taken Jon off at the waist… had he not flung himself backwards, allowing the momentum to carry the axe past Jon and into the abdomen of the first attacker.

The large man's face registered horror at burying his axe half way through his ally's body but Jon didn't plan on letting him live long enough for guilt to come through the surprise. Instead he rushed forwards, stabbing his sword into the man's left knee, causing him to howl like a wounded dog as he fell to one knee. Capitalising on the easier to reach target, Jon's axe blurred slightly as he brought into down into the side of the man's face. The first swipe broke teeth and likely dislocated the jaw. The second broke half the jaw clean off the skull in a bloody chunk. The third finished the job, moving through the gap in the man's jaw, tearing a bloody path through the man's throat as it did so.

Swinging his entire body around to the left on instinct alone, Jon cursed loudly as burning hot pain lanced across the back of his neck. An enemy had capitalised on his turned back, aiming to take his head but instead just managing to rake the tip of his sword along the back of Jon's neck. With the man's body fully committed to the now failed attack, he was unable to block the strike to the cheek from Jon's pommel. Blood splattered out of the man's mouth even as his axe came around, breaking through the metal around the sides of the man's helm, the bloodied blade gouging out his eye on its exit from his helm. The man screamed and waved his sword frantically at Jon, prompting Jon to duck out of the reach of the man's sword before counter-attacking with a lightning-fast slash that took the man's sword hand at the wrist.

Not giving the man time to scream about the loss of his hand, Jon roared as he embedded his axe in the man's shoulder and used it as leverage to pull to man forward, forcing his sword into and through the man's guts. The blade didn't quite punch through the back of the man's armour but it hardly needed to. Kicking the man off his blade and axe, Jon's eyes widened as a smaller man danced into view at the corner of Jon's eye, his dagger stabbing down too fast for him to block.

The dagger was thin and sharp, allowing it to punch through the armour of Jon's upper left leg and into the vulnerable flesh beneath.

Before Jon could lash out in his pain the man had withdrawn the dagger and slashed at Jon's chest as he dodged backwards. Thankfully a small dagger, no matter how sharp, wasn't enough to do more than carve a small trench through the thicker armour of Jon's breastplate. Swearing, Jon slashed blindly at the dagger-wielding fucker, missing him as the man jumped backwards to avoid the sword… bumping into the back of a Dayne soldier in the process and losing his balance, falling forwards again.

Running on instinct, pain and rage, Jon dropped his sword where it landed point down in the body of the man he had killed before. Reaching out with his right hand, Jon gripped the side of the man's head, his thumb pushing into the man's eye, tearing through the soft organ as he applied more pressure. The man screamed even as Jon used the grip on the man's skull to yank him to the side, his axe flashing out when within reach, embedding itself into the side of the man's neck, half-beheading him in one strike of the axe. The man began choking on his own blood but Jon was still too angry at the man to let him just die without another hit in. Roaring in guttural fury, Jon pulled his axe free before swinging again, this time succeeding in taking the man's head completely off.

With a shout, Jon threw the head as hard as he could over the heads of several men.

Grimacing in pain, Jon managed to stay on his feet through sheer force of will, doing his damnedest to ignore the pain in his left leg. The blood was running rather freely but he hadn't been struck in the vital area of the leg, where Sam had taught them all there was a large 'vein' that, if struck, would lead them to bleed out in a minute. He was still alive and he hadn't flooded his own armour with his bloody yet so he doubted that vein had been severed. Didn't matter now though did it? He was going to die here anyway so did it really matter how, exactly, he died?

Actually… yes. It did.

He might not be as prideful as some of the people he had met in his life but he knew himself well enough to know that his pride demanded that he die in a better way. Bleeding out from a cut to the leg by someone who clearly was more suited to being a thief than a warrior? Not something his pride could accept, not while he was still able to stand and swing a sword or an axe.

Reaching down, Jon withdrew his sword from where it had landed in the chest of a downed opponent. The rest of his body was still running on the rush of battle, his blood pounding in his ears as much as the screams of the dying. His left leg might not be as steady as it had been before but he could still put weight on it and a few tentative steps forwards told him he could still move with it.

One foe decided he didn't get the time to find his footing again and rushed at him from the right, sword slashing down in an overhead swing. Jon managed to hook the blade underneath his axe's head, pulling the blade off to the left with his axe. Unfortunately the motion caused his left leg to spasm in pain, the leg seemingly dropping out from under him as he momentarily lost all sensation in it. From his lowered position, Jon jabbed upwards with his sword, determined not to die on his knees like this. His sword stabbed up between the man's legs breaking through the armour that protected the man's stones. His foe screamed like a woman and wasn't prepared for Jon's second thrust with his sword to pierce the bottom of the man's breastplate, tearing into his guts.

The smell of the man's guts torn and exposed to the air was terrible, enough to gag a pig no doubt, but Jon ignored it, happy as he was to have somehow have made it out of the exchange with his life. Raising to his feet with gritted teeth against the pain, which had come back in spades the moment feeling had returned to his left leg, Jon had just enough time to get his bearings before he threw himself backwards onto the ground, narrowly avoiding being trampled by a horse as the Golden Company cavalry charged through Dornishmen and their allies alike.

What in the name of the Gods were they doing? They were winning! And now they were likely killing more of their own men than they were Dornishmen!

Revelation came as an answering charge of cavalry came from the other side, men armed with lances, spears and longswords slamming into the cavalry of the Golden Company in heavier numbers. Jon watched as a knight clad in golden armour, a white cape flowing behind him, impaled a Golden Company rider through the throat with his lance, lifting the man's body like a child's toy before it was slammed into yet another Golden Company rider, lance and corpse alike allowing the white-caped knight to unseat, and possibly kill, another of the Golden Company's cavalrymen.

Jaime Fucking Lannister!

Yet more cavalry charged on past him, charging in the direction the Golden Company riders had come from originally. The Dornish footmen regrouped around Jon, rallying to the man who had commanded them even when he wasn't issuing any commands. As Jon watched, he spotted several standards being carried into battle as hundreds of Dornish cavalry charged past him in pursuit of their foes.

And Dornish they were.

He could see the chained gate sigil of House Yronwood leading the charge with the crowned skull of House Manwoody mixed in there as well. And… was that a snake biting a man's foot? House Wyl if he was remembering his training in sigils with maester Luwin right enough. They were charging forwards, which meant they must have crested the hill behind them to have appeared so suddenly.

Indeed, Dornish reinforcements were streaming down the hill from the other side, cavalry charging down both sides of the encirclement, fresh Dornish footmen charging down the centre to instead encircle the Golden Company infantry that had been closest to the hill at the beginning of Jon's 'final' charge. Or not quite as final as it turned out. Even now the horns were sounding as literally thousands of spearmen and horsemen came to the aid of House Dayne and the Red Viper's forces.

He didn't know which set of Gods were watching over him but Jon was going to pray to each and every one of them tonight for seeing him through this mad battle.

The Golden Company was in retreat it would seem, attempting to be orderly about it in some places where the most competent commanders were. But in other places it was falling apart, this swift and sudden counter-attack on their entirely occupied forces was too much even for their usual discipline. To the right Jon could see the remaining pikemen, archers and some of the cavalry withdrawing in good form, the archers and crossbowmen acting as skirmishers to dissuade pursuit and the pikemen making several short-lived stands to take down some of the horsemen who doggedly refused to let them leave the field.

It took another horn blast over in that general area before the right flank of the counter attack folded back in towards the left, sweeping up many of the routing infantry that the first push had neglected to finish off.

Well… he supposed that was his part done now. The forces of House Dayne and the Red Viper were spent, decimated by the battle and dog-tired even if they had been able to assemble in any kind of numbers. Jon's shoulders sagged as he prepared to let the tiredness seep into his bones, to replace the rage and drive that had been forcing his body to continue despite however many hours he had been fighting so far today.

"Snow!"

The fuck? No one had called in Snow that loudly, that clearly, in years, not since he had proven to most of The North that he had earned his new name. Looking up he spotted Jaime Lannister trotting towards him, a second, riderless, horse being led by the reigns beside him. He took one look at the man's smug expression and didn't verbally answer, instead just raising an eyebrow.

If the man wanted to gloat about 'saving' him then he was entitled to do so, Jon would accept it without complaint considering that was almost exactly what had happened after all. Jaime and his reinforcements from the northern Dornish houses was really the only reason that Jon, and many of the Dayne men around him, were still alive.

Didn't mean he would be all chummy with the man of course.

"Mount up Ser Snow!" he declared in his usual, mocking, tones even though there was an undercurrent of excitement that even Jon could notice, "The Golden Prince flees the battle… foolishly in a direction far from the remainder of his forces! We shall run him and his guard down before they have chance to regroup with their other forces! Are you joining us?"

He had a wound in his leg that he had no idea how serious it truly was. He was drained from fighting in the damned heat for half a day. His arms were leaden, his body close to exhaustion and he was covered in blood, mud and shit from the dying and the dead.

And at the mention of running down Aegon Targaryen none of that mattered anymore as he felt a flash of great and terrible hatred rush through him, bringing his blood to the boil as he thought about taking the man's life,

"We ride!" he barked, pulling himself onto the horse with barely a grimace of pain from his leg, sheathing his sword along the flank of the horse and snatching a lance from one of the other horsemen to answer Jaime Lannister's call to arms against the 'prince', "Lead on Ser Jaime! I don't care if we chase him all night – I will have his head!"

A tired cheer rose from the men of House Dayne who had fought and bled by Jon's side today. He raised his lance in salute to them as Ser Jaime spurred the cavalry into motion again, before following them as fast as he could push his stead without fear of it collapsing before he reached his prey, matching speed with Ser Jaime at the head of the pack before long.

The cavalry that Ser Jaime had managed to gather up for this chase was mostly made up of the Crownlander cavalry that had managed to survive their previous battle with the Golden Company, some of the House Yronwood men mixed in there as well.

Their target was visible in the distance – a dozen or so riders, including the Golden Dragon himself. Even from here it was easy to pick the man out with his cape with the black and red Targaryen sigil emblazed on it and that stupid 'three headed dragon' helm he wore added height that was unmistakable even at this distance. They had the man outnumbered heavily and there was no way that the dozen or so riders would be able to outclass so many men – not when they had such knights as Ser Jaime Lannister and… was that Mors Manwoody? Edric had briefly introduced Jon to the heir of House Wyl on their travels down to Starfall but he might have been mistaken, having only met the man once.

Of course it was hard to really focus on a man who might have been someone important when he was running down Aegon Targaryen. His hatred for the man and his family ran deep and it was fuelling him well so far, to the point that he was still riding strong despite his leg even as they were quickly leaving the main battlefield far behind them. It was going well, the distance between their parties was being eaten up with every passing second and there was nothing that could stop him from reaching the Targaryen Prince and getting the chance to direct his hatred at the man directly.

Except, it seemed, such hatred gave one very severe tunnel-vision.

Jon swore as his horse bucked and tried to change course, leading him to have to wrestle with the reins to correct its heading. It was only because of his struggling with the horse that he managed to avoid the tusk-mounted blades of the war elephant that had charged into the flank of their expedition force. Cursing loudly, Jon watched as the man he thought might have been Mors Manwoody was crushed under the massive feet of the war beast. But even as he watched the numbers and lances of the party was wearing the beast down.

"Leave them!"

His head snapped round to Ser Jaime, who was scowling as he gathered a dozen or so of the horsemen to follow him, immediately forcing their horses on faster, leaving perhaps a hundred or so horsemen to face down the elephant. And Jon? Jon had already spurred his mount to follow Ser Jaime before his mind had fully processed what had been said – leaving the horsemen to face down the war elephant which had, if its sudden appearance was anything to go by, had been released in a mad charge in an effort to disrupt the Dornish attempt to mop up the stragglers.

Gods damn it, he wasn't letting Aegon Fucking Targaryen get away from him for some half-recognised dead lordling and Crownlanders.

Instead he was level with Ser Jaime again, their own group closing on Prince Aegon's guard rather quickly now. A good thing too actually, Aegon was coming up on the edge of a small wood by the looks of it. If Aegon managed to get into the woods there was a very real chance that he could lose them and hide long enough to join up with some of his other forces – and the entire chase, including the lives of the men back with the elephant, had been entirely in vain.

Seemed that their quarry got that impression as well as all but three riders turned to make a stand, leaving the Prince and two guards to continue onwards towards the treeline. Gripping the lance tightly in hand, Jon lowered its point into attack position as the remaining riders formed a roughly wedge to meet the lances of the Golden Company guards who had been left behind, who were already beginning their counter charge. Gritting his teeth, Jon preyed to the Old Gods to keep his aim true, aiming for a rider just ever so slightly to the right of him as he charged forwards.

The two groups of cavalry and knights clashed in a thunderous sound of tortured metal, breaking wood and pained cries of men.

Jon's lance smashed into the front of his target's helm, pulping the man's head and causing his lance to swerve off target, glancing off Jon's right shoulder rather than impaling him in the shoulder. His momentum gone after the charge, Jon dropped the lance as quickly as he could. He wouldn't have the chance to get himself back up to charging speed so it was little more than dead weight to him right now. Instead he drew his sword, blocking a slash from an enemy knight who had the same idea, their swords clashing in the space between their horses.

Moving his horse to avoid the other knight getting behind him, Jon slashed out, his own attack parried just as the knight's had been before. Deciding to go with something a little bit riskier, but potentially invaluable in this battle, Jon made to slash at the knight's horse, letting the man commit to parrying the attack before using his entire body to reverse the direction of his swing, instead bringing it up at the knight's face. Such an attack would have been too slow with a normal sword but Valyrian Steel was not only stronger, and sharper, than regular steel but also, strangely, much lighter too.

Jon's Valyrian Steel blade cut the front of the knight's face in half diagonally, cutting halfway into the skull so no doubt bisecting some of the brain as well.

Ser Jaime, it seemed, had decided that he was going to leave this to his men and capture, or kill, the enemy by himself because he was already pushing his horse into the treeline. It would seem that Prince Aegon and his remaining guards had indeed gotten into the trees before they could catch them – problematic but it wasn't impossible to catch them yet. All they needed to do was catch up to them quickly enough, before they could escape sight completely.

Urging his tired horse onwards, Jon sheathed his blade along the flank of the horse again, not wanting to risk charging into the unfamiliar wood with his sword drawn, while riding an unfamiliar mount. It was just a recipe for disasters – and Jon wasn't going to let anything ruin his chance to settle this.

As soon as his horse passed into the treeline thing went wrong.

With a cry, the horse ran into a collection of raised roots along the ground, tripping the horse with a sickening crack that spoke of broken bones for sure. As for Jon, he cursed loudly as he was unseated, thrown to the side and into a tree's trunk. He bit down on his tongue to avoid cursing even more at the feelings of pain emanating from his left ribs. Gods he hoped he hadn't broken them, he had broken his ribs before and they were hell to heal.

His horse whined pitifully, its front two legs completely broken and clearly visible from where it laid on its side. Jon limped over to the beast, drawing his sword from its sheath before quickly stabbing the blade into the horse's neck. It twitched once more before becoming still, out of its misery. A kindness to the beast for getting him this close to his goal, even though he was getting a terrible feeling that he was going to be too late to get the satisfaction he wanted.

Sword dragging along the ground, Jon pressed on, further into the woods, following the rough trail that the others must have followed. If the trail was uneven enough to have unhorsed him then it would have been suicide to stray from the trail, where the ground seemed to be nothing but a series of walls made almost entirely from tree roots and the like.

Made tracking them much easier too.

Faint cries for help from around a bend in the trail made Jon cautious but when he turned the bend, sword raised to defend himself, he blinked as he saw one of the guards Prince Aegon had fled with, trapped underneath his horse. It seemed that the beast had been tripped by the roots as his own had been but, rather than being safely unhorsed as he was, the rider hadn't been able to pull himself free, now stuck under the horse with what was surely a broken leg. The rider didn't beg for help from Jon, gritting his teeth against the pain instead,

"I won't help you track the true king!" he growled in disjointed common tongue, an accent from somewhere in Essos tainting his words, "I will not betray him!"

Jon spared the man a glance as he continued to walk down the trail, his sword trailing along the ground beside him. He blinked tiredly,

"I didn't ask you to." He answered bluntly as he slowly stabbed the man through the eye with his sword, "There's only one trail in this fucking wood."

Pulling his sword from the man's eye socket, he grimaced and wrapped his other arm around his ribs to shield them from any movement as he continued on. His limp was getting worse. No matter how much will and hatred he had, it didn't change the fact that the wound on his leg could actually be quite serious. The ribs weren't helping either, the extra pain straining his concentration on the goal he had set himself.

The goal being the death of Aegon Targaryen.

He was approaching a small clearing when he began to hear voices. Deciding that fighting two people in his current condition was a bad idea, Jon slid up to one of the surrounding trees as quietly as he could while wearing armour. Thankfully the three people in the clearing seemed far more interested in their own byplay than any strange sounds.

Ser Jaime was laid up against a tree on the other end of the clearing, a chunk of wood jutting out from his stomach. His breastplate had been loosened enough to see the wood sticking up through his body, blood running freely. He appeared to be out cold but his horse was nearby, its front legs entirely cut off at the knees. Seemed that Ser Jaime had been unhorsed rather violently because one of their prey had cut his horse down when it had entered the clearing.

Leaving Ser Jaime to fly through the air, be impaled on a rather solid piece of wood and be out cold from where he had doubtlessly hit his head.

The remaining guard was just dismounting in the centre of the clearing and Prince Aegon was stood over Ser Jaime, kicking him in the side viciously a few times as he laughed a rather mad little giggle of a laugh. Jon suppressed a shudder at the sound even as the guard visibly winced,

"My Prince, should we not continue?" he urged his leader, "I fear the remainder of the Kingslayer's men will soon be upon us. We must hurry away!"

Aegon scoffed, not turning away from Ser Jaime's prone form,

"No." he declared firmly, kicking Jaime in the ribs and getting a cry of pain and a brief fluttering of eyes before Ser Jaime was once again unconscious, "No! For too long I have waited for this day… longed for it! The man who killed the beloved King Aerys the Second – the man who betrayed the solemn oath of the Kingsguard! Oh no… I have waited far too long to have this man at my mercy!"

What?

King Aerys wasn't Aegon's father! Rhaegar Targaryen was his father not… oh dear Gods above. Was this what Varys had tried to warn them about? Was this why the Red Viper wouldn't mind having to kill the man? If the man had been Aegon then the Martell's would have been kin to him but if he wasn't Aegon, if he was instead… Viserys… then he was the second son of the Mad King and the younger brother of Rhaegar Targaryen. But what was he doing here at the head of an invading army, using his nephew's name?

Was Aegon actually dead after all? His brains actually bashed in by Gregor Clegane as all the stories said was so?

It was a rather interesting development to say the least but Jon was determined not to change his plan regardless. Aegon or Viserys, it didn't matter to Jon, the man needed to die and really, really, wanted to be the one to kill him. With their attention focused on Ser Jaime, Jon crept out from behind the tree. He continued on as the guard spoke again,

"My Prince please!" he begged his leader, unaware of Jon getting ever closer to his exposed back, "We must away! It is not safe – you will be captured!"

Jon wrapped an arm around the guard's neck, blocking his mouth with his hand as he slid his sword underneath the man's armour at the back, just before it joined with his greaves. The noise was wet but seemed to be quiet enough not to draw the Prince's attention considering the man was ranting now,

"You are a fool to think so – the Gods themselves watch over me!" he assured the guard even as he prodded Ser Jaime's breastplate with the tip of his sword, "I still have plenty of time to make the Kingslayer scream before I regroup with my armies. I will not be capture you fool – I am the Dragon!"

By the end of the rant Jon had withdrawn his sword and was holding the guard's body upright with one arm. But he just could resist the opportunity to see surprise and fear on the Targaryen Prince's face,

"You're right about one thing – you won't be captured."

The 'Golden Dragon' spun to face him as Jon dropped the guard's corpse to the ground and lashed out with his sword. Jon's first attacked with parried poorly, loosening the Targaryen's grip on his sword enough that Jon was able to disarm his opponent with his next hit, having struck the man's blade hard enough to cause the pain in the man's fingers. Growling in anger, Jon stabbed his sword into the ground and grabbed the prince by the side of his ridiculous dragon helm.

Ignoring the man's fumbling attempts to draw his knife, Jon used all of his strength and his renewed anger and hatred to slam the Targaryen's head into the side of the tree's trunk. Disorientated, the prince didn't go for his dagger again, giving Jon more than enough chance to bash the smaller man's head against the side of the tree half a dozen times before throwing him to the ground a foot or so away, the helm coming off in the process to fully reveal the white blond hair, angular face, high cheek bones and light purple eyes.

The splattering of blood from a wound Jon had caused above his ear didn't ease Jon's hatred for the man but it was a good look for him.

Scowling, Jon advanced upon the smaller man. The Targaryen prince, Aegon or Viserys or fucking Aegon the Conqueror reborn for all the care Jon had in him for the name, drew his dagger and held it up against him as he dragged himself back,

"Y-You can't hurt me! I am the dragon!" he declared, shaking like a leaf even as his back touched upon a tree, having backed himself against it in his attempt to crawl away from Jon, "You're one of those Northern Savages! I am the DRAGON! Take one more step and I will kill you where you stand!"

Bran gave better threats than this little shit.

Ignoring the threat, Jon took another step forwards… and quickly reached out and grabbed the man's hand when he jabbed the dagger at him. With a scowl, Jon twisted, breaking the man's wrist which resulted in a rather high pitched cry of pain. Pulling the dagger free of the man's hand, he put the hand up against the tree trunk before stabbing the dagger in, making sure to stab it in deep enough to pin the hand to the tree.

The resulting scream was music to Jon's ears.

Though he could have done without the constant stream of pitiful threats about how he was 'waking the dragon' and would pay for his crimes with 'blood and fire'. He was a fucking lune. Jon grabbed the man by his hair with one hand, lifting his head and slapping him with his other hand,

"Shut the fuck up and speak when I fucking speak to you!" he hissed at the man, slapping him harder when he went to talk again, breaking his nose if the blood was any indication, "I don't give a shit if you're every fucking God at once as well as a dragon. You speak when I tell you to. Now… what is your name?"

A simple question.

But, of course, the Targaryen prince decided that he was going to be difficult and spat blood in Jon's general direction,

"I'll find your family savage… and I'll rape your daughters, your sisters, your mother… then I'll fucking burn everyone else you've ever so much as spoken to!" he growled up at Jon with a mad hate ablaze in his eyes, "Your female family members? I'll keep them. I'll fucking breed them! Then, bash their bastard's brains in and do it all again!"

His traitorous mind flashed to thoughts of Arya and Sansa at the non-existent mercy for this despicable example of a man. Growling, Jon punched the man in the gut as hard as he could. The man's strangled noise of pain stopped as he gagged and threw up on the ground, blood mixing in from the side of his head and from his nose. Jon pulled his head up by his hair again,

"Tell me your name or I start taking your fingers."

He didn't shout, not even raising his voice slightly. His voice was quiet but firm, with the ever present hatred simmering underneath every word. The Targaryen looked at him for a long moment, apparently judging he was serious before shaking his head wildly,

"No… no… no! I am the Dragon! This isn't supposed to happen to me!" he cried, flinching when Jon reached for his own dagger and continuing, "You… you fucking savage… have the e-esteemed honour of addressing King Viserys Targaryen!"

Well Gods be good.

"And Aegon?"

He drew his dagger for emphasis and the 'king' eyed it warily for a few moments before snorting a little bit, even though he still wiggled in pain from his pinned hand. Seriously, this was the leader of the invasion? He wasn't a man, he was a spoilt little child… and he was fucking older than Jon!

"What about the little Dornish bastard?" he groused, "He was being raised by Jon Connington, one of my father's biggest traitors, and had the Golden Company on a platter! But he wasn't made for war – he could barely pull himself away from his harp when I tracked them down, finally! If he wasn't going to use the advantages he had to restore our family… I did instead!"

So Aegon had somehow escaped and had been raised in Essos. Apparently with the Golden Company ready to sign on when he was ready – an arrangement that would not have come cheap but wasn't even possibly available to a Targaryen Prince assumed dead the world over. And was now dead anyway. He didn't think it possible but this man was like an open book so far – and all he had read so far suggested that violence and blood were this man's 'weapons of choice'. He shook his head in bemusement,

"So your nephew had a better position to take back the Iron Throne so… what? You killed him?" he chuckled a little bit as he reached out and patted Visery's on the cheek mockingly, "Wow… you're a real piece of work Visery's. You call Ser Jaime the Kingslayer but I suppose you're just jealous – you're just a Kinslayer. Not nearly as exclusive a title now is it?"

The man showed he had some intelligence for the first time in this meeting, remaining silent as Jon couldn't help but laugh, tightening his grip on the man's cheek to painful levels,

"You know… I'm fucking glad I never met you before this." He declared, "You have got to be one of the worst uncles in history. I'm glad I never met you before I got my chance to end you… uncle dearest. Yes. Yes, before you even fucking ask. YES!"

The last of a roar, accompanied with a savage back-hand that cut open Visery's lip. Licking his own lips a little bit, Jon stood from where he had been kneeling in front of Viserys, pacing back and forth in front of him a little bit as he glared down at the man who was… his fucking uncle! This steaming pile of human detritus was his uncle.

Younger brother to his father, Rhaegar Targaryen. The man who had abducted his mother, Lyanna Stark, and whisked her away to Dorne and raped her. Oh sure, Wylla had assured him that Lyanna had been willing at the time. The key part of that sentence being – at the time. Rhaegar had lied to Lyanna all along, stringing her along with pretty promises of freedom from her duties and obligations, of running away and living a life together straight from the fucking songs.

And when Lyanna had questioned him about why they had instead just stayed in that fucking tower… the Tower of Joy? Well then the locks appeared on the doors. Then three 'honourable' men of the Kingsguard threw away their honour to act as jailors to a scared Northern girl, who had been led astray by a monstrous liar.

Leaving her broken, depressed, imprisoned and pregnant.

Even just in the last month of the pregnancy, when Wylla had been brought in by The Sword of the Fucking Morning, Arthur Dayne, she had been suffering. Jon, the babe she carried, had been such a burden on her that she'd tried to take her own life, stopped by the Kingsguard before anything could come of it. She had begged Wylla, on her hands and knees, to get her some Moon Tea. The lies and the broken promises, the imprisonment and the Whent Knight's continued reports of the world outside the tower had driven her to want to either kill him before his birth or, failing that, to take his life and her own.

He didn't blame her.

Rhaegar Targaryen was a monster – the kind of man who didn't care for anyone but himself. He hadn't cared for Elia Martell and her happiness, because she hadn't been able to 'fulfil the prophecy' by having another child. He didn't care when he made all those grand promises of running away to Essos with Lyanna, all he had cared about was what it would take for Lyanna Stark to carry his child, fulfilling his fucking prophecy.

"I knew it… I KNEW IT!" Viserys cackled, actually cackled in his laugh despite his situation, "I knew my brother didn't kidnap her! I bet the Northern slut trapped him with you, their bastard offspring, threatening his good name and the reputation of our family! And your family, your warmongering savage family, just used it as an excuse to depose a beloved king – my father!"

Oh his delusions were so strong! It was going to be fun to fuck with his head before he killed him… and he would kill him. He would be a Kinslayer in the eyes of the Gods – but he didn't care. Rhaegar Targaryen might well have been the man who sired him but he would never admit that the man was his father. No! His father was Eddard Stark, the man who had taken him into his home, despite the shame having a 'bastard of his own' brought unto him and his wife, trained him, fed him, taught him and loved him.

Rhaegar Targaryen wasn't his father – he was a lying, mad, sack of bones. The world was better off, safer, without him and his unique brand of callousness and madness. Not as immediately apparent as his father and Viserys here, but a man willing to entrap a naïve young girl, bring his kingdom to civil war and ruin for the sake of a prophecy? One that he had 'changed' because he obviously wasn't the prophesied one, to fit his children instead?

That was a special kind of madness.

"Beloved? King Scab?" he asked with a mocking lilt to his voice, grinning wickedly as Viserys purpled at the nickname, "The Mad King? The King who burned those who spoke against him? Oh yes… so very fucking beloved! But enough about our father's Uncle Viserys… this isn't about them. This is about me, and you."

He looked into Viserys' eyes with a growl of anger escaping his throat,

"The Targaryen line is too tainted – madness and incest. Makes for monsters. Aegon and I? He stood a chance. I stand a chance because I'm not a product of incest like you and Rhaegar – the smallfolk see it all the time in cattle after all. The products of incest like you? You're rotten – bad produce." He declared, holding Viserys head in both of his hands tightly, "You say you're the Dragon, uncle? Well the world is better off without beasts like dragons."

Viserys could tell where this was going. He was frantic to escape Jon's clutches but Jon just kept his grip, knowing that there was no way that Viserys would be able to escape now,

"You! You're a dragon!" he declared hastily, "We're family! You're just as much a dragon as I am! Just as much a Targaryen… Fire and blood, Jon Targaryen! You can't kill me, we are family – we can take the Kingdom back for our family! We can rule!"

Oh wow.

Was he really trying to tempt Jon into joining him? That was low. A desperate move made by a desperate man who knew that his life depended on what his capture thought of him. Jon let go of Viserys' face, standing and moving slowly over to the body of the guard he had killed previously,

"My mother was Lyanna Stark. I was sired by Rhaegar Targaryen out of wedlock. I was raised by Eddard Stark as his own son, given every advantage in life I could ever ask for. Raised with love, care and educated well in every aspect I wanted." He paused as he rested his hand on the pommel of Red Rain for a moment, reflecting on who he was as a person. After all, Viserys wasn't going anywhere, "I could never be a Targaryen despite my sire – I would still be a bastard. A Snow. But even as a Snow, I was raised as a Stark of Winterfell. I have pledged my life to the Starks of Winterfell."

He drew his sword from the ground and stalked towards Viserys, who had been attempting to remove the dagger from his hand and having no luck. His eyes widened as Jon raised Red Rain high above his head. Viserys held out his hand,

"No! No wait! Please! Nephew, please!"

Jon ignored him, marching forwards resolutely,

"My name is Jon Whitewolf!" he growled, "And I am a STARK!"

Red Rain sang as it came down through the air, splitting Viserys' skull open vertically. His eyes became glassy and his mouth, on each side of the new divide in his face, fell slack. With contempt, Jon swung his sword horizontally, decapitating both halves of the man's head. Blood spurted from the stump, powerful for a moment before tapering off after a few seconds.

He had done it.

He had taken the life of his 'uncle', Viserys Targaryen. Hells, due to the incest involved, Rhaegar and Viserys were practically identical in most ways – it was almost like killing that lying cunt who Viserys had called his father. A title that Rhaegar didn't deserve, ever.

Even Aegon, the babe killed in Kings Landing or the young man killed in Essos, and his sister deserved better than Rhaegar Targaryen for a father. The man had abandoned them in a heartbeat to try and 'make the prophecy come true' with Lyanna instead.

He idly wondered, as he watched the bleeding stop entirely from Viserys' stump neck, if he would ever be able to call Lyanna Stark his mother. Even in the confines of his own mind he found it hard to think of the woman as his mother – not after so long viewing her as his aunt. Perhaps that would be something that was clarified when he spoke to his father about her as they had agreed? News had reached him of his 'real' father's appointment as Hand of the King on his way on the road to this fucking war after all. Sansa had gone too, eager to see the capital so the letter had told him – he was sure there was more to it than that but he would be able to ask them when he visited them in Kings Landing once the threats in the Stormlands were dealt with.

Of course, thinking about King's Landing brought up another issue that he couldn't ignore.

"I imagine you heard enough of that to be incriminating, no matter what part you woke up for."

There was silence for a moment before the smooth, but not smug, voice of Jaime Lannister broke the delicate silence,

"I suppose so." He agreed quietly from his position, still impaled by the root on the ground by a tree. He looked at Jon with an unwavering gaze as Jon turned to look down at the other knight, "I won't tell anyone."

Jon stood next to the other knight and nodded once,

"I know."

Jon slowly pushed the tip of Red Rain into Ser Jaime's throat, breaking the skin smoothly but slowly none the less. The Lannister's eyes widened in panic as he briefly choked on his own blood before Red Rain stabbed far enough down to break the man's neck, killing him instantly as Jon just looked down at the Lannister, watching the life leave his eyes with something akin to regret but not quite fully realised regret.

It was a necessary evil, to protect his secret. His family's secret – the secret of House Stark.

And he would do it again in a heartbeat if he had to.


	27. Chapter 27

**AN - Shorter than usual. Busy at work and this came out a little bit as a stop-gap. Bigger plot points are coming and you will begin to see closer plot lines to those in canon.**

Smoke Signals

Jon knew well enough that he wasn't a good man anymore - perhaps he had never had chance to be one in the first place - but it didn't mean that he was a monster. He had done things that were clearly not the actions of a good man but he regretted them on some level after he had committed them, even when he would do the same thing if he had the chance to do it over again. But he liked to think that still feeling that regret meant that he still wasn't a monster yet.

After all, he doubted that someone like Gregor Clegane really agonised over what he had done.

Jon knew that he had done what he had to do, that Jaime Lannister had to die in order for him to be able to move on. If the Lannister's knew that he was Rhaegar's son then, in the best they would have incredible leverage over him and would be able to dictate his actions to the letter, lest all seven kingdoms find out who his birth father was. And worst case? Well the worst case was that the Lannister's saw him as a threat to Queen Cersei and her half-Lannister children, the princes and princess of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros.

Ser Jaime could have sworn an oath to the effect that he would never speak of the secret but when a man takes the vows as a Kingsguard, some of the heaviest vows in the land, and shrugs them off like a cloak when it suits him? No. An oath from Jaime Lannister could never be trusted because the man himself had proven himself to be unworthy of any meaningful trust. Standing side by side in battle? Certainly, the man would be seeking your survival because it helped his own chances of such. But a secret as big as Jon's? A secret where the blonde man had nothing to gain?

No, he could not be trusted.

So the secret had to die with him, just as he was sure his true father had intended to have the secret die with only himself and Jon knowing the truth about Lyanna Stark and that fucking tower. And to preserve that, along with a North that wasn't torn apart by the enemies of Rhaegar Targaryen, Jon agreed with his father. The only two who should know were Jon himself and Eddard - no one else could know.

And that meant that Jaime Lannister had to die. He couldn't keep the secret and the secret needed to be kept - so Jaime had to be removed from the problem. So Jaime had to die and Jon was one of two men in the Kingdoms who knew he had to die and was the only one in the position to do so. So Jon had killed the man as painlessly as he could at the time.

Still, he regretted that it had come to that. He regretted the act of taking Jaime's life, even if he still didn't think that he had been wrong to do so.

He wondered if his true father had ever had to do anything similar to protect the secret… he really hoped not. Eddard Stark was a man of most paramount honour and it would have hurt him on an almost physical level to murder someone for this secret, even when it was a killing that could easily be claimed as something that was for 'the greater good' - it was in defence of family after all.

It didn't matter in the end though.

Jaime was dead, the secret was safe and Jon felt like an asshole when the assembled men attempted to sing songs about the Lannister's upon hearing of Ser Jaime's end, wreathed in glory and honour as he had been in the end of his life. Jon himself had some men singing about him when he had returned with his "uncle's" head, both parts, but they had quietened down as it was almost universally accepted that it had been Ser Jaime's heroic charge that had softened up the Targaryen prince for Jon to land the killing blow.

It was all so much noise and annoyance to a bleeding, pained, Jon so he had ignored it as best he could.

Of course he was now resting in the back of a maester's cart with his wounded leg stuffed with a foul-smelling mixture that the maester had assured him promoted the healing process and helped ward off corruption. It hadn't been swelling like infected wound did in Jon's experience so he counted that as a good sign, though he was going to soon either pass from the boredom of the travel or from thinking himself into an early grave.

All he had, resting in the back of this cart, was the sky to gaze up at, his boredom and his thoughts.

Of course there was some Lordling or other laid out next to him on the bed of the cart but Jon wouldn't be surprised if the man was already dead. He was covered in both old and new blood, his lower left leg a bloody mess from when an elephant had managed to crush it. Then he had been left in a pile of dead men for a few hours as well - Jon was certain the man was dead but a distressed Lord, no doubt the man's father, had insisted the maester try at least.

Waste of room on the cart considering all those men or lesser birth who could have been saved. Jon himself was annoyed that he had to be laid flat, taking up so much room, rather than being able to just sit on the end of the cart, freeing up room for others to be recovered. But it wasn't his cart and the maester was a cantankerous arse that Jon had no intention of speaking to of his own free will - the man must have gotten some kind of sick pleasure from pain because he'd made sure to squeeze Jon's wound with a rather heavy hand.

Gods how he wished he was back under the care of the doddering Samwell Tarly - the man wasn't even recognised as a maester and yet he would trust him with his health a lot more readily than this old fossil.

Maybe Jon was just getting sick of the smell of the dead guy next to him? Or maybe he was more annoyed by the fact that the maester refused to tell him what the source of the black smoke in the sky had been for the past few miles? They had been on the road for days now and Jon had been laid up in the cart 'resting' without being able to talk to any of the people he knew.

Not that he knew too many people of course.

Edric was busy being Lord Dayne or the Sword of the Morning at the front of the army, his injury having apparently been a lot more blood than it had been actual damage. His friend was already on the mend and able to ride with the men while Jon lounged back with the dead man beside him. Of course he couldn't be too jealous of his friend - Edric was having to entertain Oberyn Martell.

With a distinct lack of brothels or eligible bachelors around, the Red Viper was experiencing a bit of a dry spell and, according to the mutterings and japes of the men his cart passed, this was something of a rarity it had to be said. And he was becoming increasingly bad tempered because of this enforced celibacy. Might mean he would have fewer children in the future however - something that Jon was certain was for the betterment of the entire realm.

There were already too many Sand Snakes.

Or maybe he was only saying that because they were literally the only people to actually show up to visit him during this trip? So far Obara was the one who had visited the most. Although last time she had taken to poking his 'cart-buddy' with a knife to check if he was actually just resting or if he was dead. But, other than her poking at dead things, the warrior woman was actually decent company, happily answering any questions he had about the battle, its aftermath and any memorable kills she had managed to obtain during the battle.

He was a true Northman, in the eyes of Obara, because he hadn't taken too much enjoyment in telling her of his kills. And apparently he had a gift for understatement.

Groaning a little bit as the cart ground to a halt, Jon closed his eyes for a few seconds. Gods above… if this was another of the 'health stops' where the maester just squeezed his leg until he screamed… well he might just have to make it so that a new maester was needed. He sat up on the bed of the cart, rolling the corpse away from him as he did so.

He could swear there were fucking maggots on the poor bastard now.

The maester had a foul look on his face… which Jon actually thought might be a good thing for him. Accepting the man's minimal aid, Jon climbed down from the cart, grimacing when he stood, placing a small amount of weight on his wounded leg. It was getting better but he wasn't going to be winning any foot races any time soon; that was for fucking sure. He hurried to stand away from the maester, not missing how the man's face fell when he didn't immediately fall over or scream.

Seriously, Jon had met warrior with less sadism in them than this maester.

Ignoring the maester, Jon did his best to straighten up when it became apparent the reason why he had been roused from his 'rest' was for the visitor he was receiving. With perfectly clean and arranged hair, soft pale skin and bright, wide, eyes, Prince Renly Baratheon could easily have been mistaken for a woman of the same family. But Jon knew enough about the Baratheon family to know that the only female in the main family was Stannis' daughter - and she was said to be a little girl, afflicted with greyscale.

So Prince Renly Baratheon and his personal knight… Loras Tyrell? Huh. Well he supposed a third son had to try and make a name for himself somehow. He was a well-known knight, famous for being a champion jouster and swordsman.

Of course Jon still remembered being better than him if memory served correctly.

Doing his best not to wince at the pain from his leg, not wanting to give the maester the satisfaction, Jon bowed to Prince Renly from the waist. He might not have fallen to one knee, as was customary, but Jon thought that might be forgiven considering his current state. Grimacing or not, he had very recently taken a blow to his leg after all - leg wounds were tricky as well, unfortunately. Renly seemed to smirk back at Ser Loras, who just kind of scowled in a rather good natured way,

"Rise Ser Jon Whitewolf! The Dragon Slayer!" he declared jovially, "Ser Loras here said you would not be able to meet due to your injuries - I bet him otherwise and here you stand! A resolute as The Wall itself!"

Ah so that was the meaning behind the little looks that Loras and Renly had been sharing. They'd have to be careful with just how many of those looks they gave each other as they could so easily be misconstrued. Jon nodded his head in greeting to Ser Loras, who showed him the same courtesy,

"I will always endeavour to bow to my prince." he declared before admitting, "Though I regret not being able to bow properly. My leg prevents that much I am afraid."

Loras just smirked a little bit,

"I had almost mistaken you for someone else Ser Jon - you look much changed without your flowing dark hair." he admitted with a shared look with Renly where they both smiled a little less, "But I'd know you by your Stark honour if nothing else."

He was sure that was not meant to be mentioned as some form of honour or compliment but Jon took it as such. There were far worse comparisons that people could make for him than comparing him to his father's family honour - his personal deeds would paint him as a contemporary to Tywin Lannister after all. And despite what people in the Westerland's said, that wasn't a good comparison anywhere else in the realm.

Jon had no doubt that being compared to Tywin Lannister by a Martell, for example, was as grave an insult as could be given. And he doubted that the Stormlands were full of Lords who sang the Lion's praises considering he had sunk his claws into the throne through his daughter marrying their King.

"Forgive me but if I may be a touch inappropriate my Prince?" he requested, waiting for the bemused Renly to wave a hand in lazy acceptance, "Thank you my Prince. Where in the seven hells are we? This sadist of a maester didn't tell me anything."

The maester went bright red and fumed while Renly tilted his head back and laughed. It was a pale imitation of the King's dull roar of a laugh but it did sound similar at least. Ser Loras just smiled a little bit and tried to look like the attentive bodyguard he was supposed to be for a moment before ruining it with a little chuckle.

"Not happy with your treatment eh Ser Jon?" he waved off the maester's spluttered protests, "Well we have a maester who would be more qualified. In fact, I think the maester of Griffin's Roost would be the perfect maester to treat you! If you don't recover then I'm afraid his fate may have to be revised - so you know he'll be very thorough in trying to help."

Well that was a tad ominous he had to admit.

Wait… Griffin's Roost? That was the seat of a Lord who had gone against the Baratheon's in the Rebellion wasn't it? Their lord had been…

As Jon wracked his brain to remember, he caught the scent on the wind from behind him and turned to face it. He ignored the pain in his leg as he stumbled ever so slightly closer to the gutted castle that was still burning, throwing up the black smoke that he had been noticing for miles now. The castle was surrounded by a camp of Baratheon men, their numbers somewhere in the low thousands,

"My Prince…?"

Renly came to stand beside him, a rather uncharacteristically grim expression in place of his usual, friendly, demeanour,

"Lord Varys confirmed that Jon Connington helped raise the usurper Aegon in Essos. My brother demanded that his family pay the price, since Connington himself is already dead." he admitted with a deeper frown, "The reports say you killed Viserys… Lords Varys and Baelish, in a rather strange display, both agree that Viserys found out about Aegon being groomed for command of the Golden Company and killed both Aegon and Connington in his jealousy before taking over the Company."

Well his 'uncle' certainly had seemed that self-serving when he had met him. But to kill his own nephew because he had a 'stronger claim' and the means to make something of it? Well, Jon was even gladder that he had killed the man, even if he didn't have any love for Aegon either. Of course one question remained unanswered,

"And his sister?"

Daenerys Targaryen was a woman and unlikely to inspire the same kind of rebellious thoughts as a Targaryen male. But she was a Targaryen woman and they had been proven, historically, to be just as effective at raising hell as the men of their line. Of course it was equally as likely that rather than a new Visenya they were looking at a mad little girl with delusions of grandeur. But Jon wasn't going to count on anything being that easy - his philosophy had always been to hope for the best but prepare for the worst possible outcome from the outset.

Renly looked uncomfortable for a moment,

"She has married a Dothraki Horse Lord." he ground out eventually, "With an army of 40,000."

Shite.

The Golden Company had been ten thousand men and they had been a strong force in Westeros, right up until their defeat. Hells, they still retained a couple thousand men most likely so they were still a threat, albeit a much smaller one. But an army of forty thousand was no joke - those were numbers to smash through all but the strongest of Westerosi armies. There would have to be a coalition of Stormlanders and Dornishmen to match their numbers if they landed in the same area as the mercenaries of the Three Daughters had.

And, speaking of which, that was if the Three Daughters and their mercenaries pulled out and left only the Dothraki. He honestly doubted that they would do that if the Dothraki showed up in their area - with allies like that it would be hard for people as short-sighted as mercenaries to see anyone being able to challenge them. Of course they'd conveniently forget that the fully marshalled Reach and Westerland's combined could raise a force of over one hundred thousand.

"Of course the Dothraki would have to cross the sea - I seem to remember from my lessons that they had something of an aversion to the seas."

Renly snorted though it didn't seem to be a very amused sound,

"You sound like your father." he admitted before shrugging, "It's called the Narrow Sea for a reason Ser Jon. All it would take was someone to convince them it would be worth their while and they would be over here in their droves. My brother ordered an assassination."

Well it wasn't the prettiest or the most honourable method, especially considering Daenerys Targaryen was around his own age at her oldest. But he was the same age and he had led armies into battle and razed a family's seat to the ground with fire and oil. She couldn't be discounted due to her sex nor due to her age. She was a valid target for assassination but… somehow he didn't think his own father would agree with that sentiment.

"My father would have disagreed."

Renly just nodded, acknowledging that Jon was right in that regard but not volunteering any other information. Jon raised an eyebrow in confusion when Renly gave a signal to Ser Loras, who immediately started pushing nearby men back, ordering them to give space and privacy to them.

An assassination attempt? No… no. Prince Renly might recognise that sometimes assassinations would be needed but he wasn't the type of man to actually plunge in the knife himself. He hoped. With his leg how it was right now, Jon doubted that he would actually be able to fend off the Prince, even if he did have an edge in skill.

Having never seen the Prince in combat, he wasn't even sure that he was have that edge. Ser Loras was a skilled knight and Prince Renly had been the man he had squired for. Could be that Prince Renly was one of the unsung champions of the sword for all Jon knew. He kept his attention on Renly, even as the Prince awaited some signal from Ser Loras. Upon receiving the signal, Renly turned to Jon with a rather worried expression,

"Ser Jon, your family is in danger."


	28. Chapter 28

**AN - Sorry if this seemed delayed. You will be getting another chapter of similar length soon. You will also get to enjoy the only shift in character focus I plan to include in this story.**

Safety is a Lie

A lot had happened while he had been away at war it seemed.

Wasn't that always the way though? Men went off to war and came back to see sons new men grown, wives, old and new crops sown. No matter how long the war, men came back from it changed and their old world changed along with them. Sometimes it was for the better and sometimes it was not.

Didn't seem like that to Jon sometimes. Sometimes it just felt like only the bad changes happened to him whenever he went to war. But that was a dark path to dwell on and he was going to need his wits about him now more than ever. Prince Renly had informed him of so many changes after all and he was going to need to be quick to take advantage of the information he had been given.

Jon Arryn had fallen ill, becoming bed-ridden within hours according to Prince Renly.

Eddard and Sansa Stark had gone south to visit the Stark patriarch's father-figure and to enquired about his health and to see if a suitable match would present itself for Sansa.

The old man's health had deteriorated rapidly to the point where he was unable to continue his duties and Eddard Stark, the honourable man that he was, volunteered to act as Hand of the King in his stead until his health improved.

And, of course, everything had gone to shit since then.

The Fat King had been gored by a pig almost the same size as him and was, even now, on what many assumed to be his deathbed with fever. Prince Renly had fled the capital at that point, afraid about how the Prince Joffrey would take his sudden increase in power - especially when considering Joffrey apparently wasn't too fond of his uncle Renly and the Queen mother was very hostile towards anyone who could threaten Joffrey's power.

Jon could imagine why Joffrey didn't like his uncle Renly.

"Your family is in danger", followed by a detailed description about how he had run away before anything could happen, leaving his father and oldest sister in the capital with Prince Joffrey and Queen Cersei, two rather ruthless people who were trying to cement their rule for when the King passed away. And they had a Lord Paramount and acting Hand of the King in their grasp.

If Jon was in their position he wouldn't let them leave for now, not until the North swore loyalty to the new King. And if they didn't swear loyalty for one reason or another then they would be imprisoned to use as hostages to make Rob, Bran and Arya swear loyalty to Joffrey. It was a terrible situation and they were only in the situation because Renly, as the man in the capital with the most Baratheon men (not the Lannister men of the Queen), he could have protected Eddard's rights a Lord Paramount and perhaps have ensured that Sansa was freed as well.

But instead he had fled the capital under the guise of rooting out those who had worked with the invading forces.

Jon supposed it wasn't really Renly's fight but that didn't make it any easier to hear that his father and sister had been left alone in King's Landing, almost entirely friendless in a changing political landscape ruled by people who did not know the meaning of restraint. He wasn't sure if he would be any help to them either.

Give him a man to fight and he would probably make a good showing and stand a decent chance of saving whomever he was fighting for. But King's Landing was a place of politics. Jon had been learning more about that particular battlefield but his understanding of it was still heavily based on battle - he understood the politics that helped with running an army and fighting an enemy.

And destroying an enemy utterly, like the Greyjoy's.

But that wasn't going to be useful here… was it? Killing the Greyjoy's off had been one thing - the entire realm had hated them and thus some of the heavier consequences had been avoided. But in this situation, the worst case scenario of it at least, he would be trying to fight back against the rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms in an attempt to save his sister and father from life as hostages.

That was never going to be justified.

Which meant that his focus would have to be on getting his family out of King's Landing no matter what. It was going to rather difficult considering he didn't have anyone to back him up in terms of manpower, his leg was only somewhat healed and he had never been to the city before. But it was a bit late to be worrying about all that now however; he was already entering the city after all.

The journey had been hell, his leg playing up for quite a while. He'd managed to get a horse from Edric, once he had essentially ordered the young man, in front of the amused Prince Oberyn, that he was not to follow him. He would have been incredibly grateful for the aid of The Sword of The Morning but it would have been hard to try and arrange for his father and sister's return to The North in at least a semi-peaceful way if a Dornishman had marched his army up to the city to 'request' it.

Jon still held out hope that his worst-case scenario wasn't going to be happening. After all, Joffrey didn't have to hold either his father or his sister hostage. He'd need a reason to doubt their loyalty first and everyone in the realm knew that Eddard Stark was a man of the highest honour, the kind of man that spoke well of his lord for having under his banner. There'd have to be some reason for Joffrey to doubt in the honour of the Stark name for him to keep them hostage.

And nothing that Renly had mentioned led Jon to believe that there would be any reason for tension between the two parties here, his father being one and the Prince and his mother the other.

They had no reason to be arrayed against each other as far as he knew so there shouldn't be any danger for the Starks already in the capital. There was every chance that Renly had been misinformed and there was no danger. But something about how he had spoken about Joffrey just alarmed Jon a little bit… as if the young man would seek confrontation rather than just accept the loyalty of the Starks to the crown.

Like he would expect it to be loyalty to him personally and not the Crown and would take great offence if it were otherwise. Odd considering how much his father had seemed to dislike being the King due to its responsibilities. He would have thought that Joffrey equally did not want to be the King but Renly had been very adamant that Joffrey wanted to be King and would kill to make sure he maintained his grip on that power.

But again, Jon couldn't think of any reason why the young man would see his father and their family to be a threat to that power.

The people of The North tended not to really care about the people of the South, by and large. They bowed to the same King but the people north of the Neck seemed to care less for the 'game' of politics when it came to King's Landing and the rest of the realm. If there was one man in the entire realm that was the least threat to Joffrey (behind his mother's family), it was Eddard Stark.

Best friend with the young man's father since fostering age and one of the key reasons that Joffrey Baratheon had a throne to actually sit upon, due to his contributions to Robert's Rebellion. There would have to be some amazingly compelling evidence for Joffrey to ignore all of that and decide that he had found issue with Jon's father.

Shuffling into the city proper, Jon tried to ignore the smell but he knew he probably wouldn't be able to do that. It seemed to permeate everything in the city and Jon had to wonder how anyone lived here, let alone why the royal family still lived in a city that stank more than any stables he had ever visited. Did people ever get used to such a stench?

He would have found that idea to be laughable if it weren't for the fact that people who were obviously residents of the city, moving with such grace amongst the crowds with clear destinations in mind, didn't have the expression of absolute disgust on their faces that Jon knew was probably on his face. Taking a deep breath, through his mouth, Jon did his best to follow their example, making his way through the crowds up towards the Red Keep.

His father was working as acting Hand of the King due to Lord Arryn's poor health so his quarters would likely be either in the tower of the Hand or close by. So that meant he was trekking up the hills towards the red-stone castle. He was dressed in chain mail under a traveller's cloak, his sword covered across his back and a dagger ready to be used on his waist, one hand resting comfortably on it.

He remembered some of the stories Gendry told him about King's Landing after all.

Speaking of Gendry, he was currently moving up what he now recognised as the street of steel. Gendry had been living in the area when The Spider had picked him up and taken him down to Harrenhall to sign up with Jon. He'd never looked the gift of his friend's arrival over too closely but it had been a very strange way for them to meet - doubtlessly The Spider had had some kind of plan in mind.

Doing his best to focus on his family and their security rather than his only 'friend' in the city of King's Landing, Jon pushed against the crowds as he got closer to the Red Keep. Its main gates were visible through the swell of the crowd and Jon frowned slightly at seeing the gates barred with guards dressed in Lannister red standing sentinel. He paused, standing to the side of the road with his side pressed against a wall, just after the mouth of an alleyway.

From the obscurity of this viewpoint, Jon was able to spot the Royal Baratheon banner above the gate, flying at half-mast.

Shite.

Did that mean that the King was dead or did that mean that Lord Arryn was dead? Both were very important people as far as the Crown was concerned and the passing of either would be met with such a response, especially if Robert were still alive and his father-figure had died. He'd want to honour the older man, he imagined. It did mean that the gate guards would be much more concerned with whom they actually let into the castle though since there would be no court today.

Frowning, he continued leaning against the wall as he thought about how best to gain entry to the castle. He might have to see about getting word to one of his father's guards first to let them gain him entry through vouching for him. On the other hand, he might actually be famous enough now that they'd have heard of him and know he was related to Eddard Stark of Winterfell.

Of course he secretly hoped they had no idea who he was, he was rather uncomfortable with the idea of being famous, even if he accepted it as something that might come in handy somewhere down the line. Without looking away from the object of his musings, Jon grabbed the hand that he been trying to make its way into his cloak in a stealthy manner. The hand was soft like a child's but a touch larger than would usually be expected of a child.

Jon spun, drawing his dagger with the other hand as he pulled the pick-pocket into the alley, pinning them against the wall with his dagger pressed up against their neck. It was a move he was well-versed in from the sparring yard but his leg had slowed it rather too much for him to be happy with the move itself.

His prey however… confused him.

It was a rather portly man covered in grime and dirt everywhere except his light brown hair. And that little smile… he knew that smile. The disguise was well put together to be sure but those scheming little eyes and that mouth, ready to titter at any moment, it was only one man as far as Jon was concerned. Honestly, the only reason Jon hadn't immediately shouted out the man's name in surprise had been the fact that it made no sense to meet The Spider like this.

Instead he slowly removed his dagger from the man's throat and took a step back. He could feel the blood trickling down his leg from his wound but he ignored it for now. Thankfully it appeared to have not ruined all of his healing so far… otherwise there'd have been a lot more blood. He just stared at the man for a long moment,

"Lord Varys."

It wasn't a question this time. With more time to check out the disguise, he was able to say with more confidence that he knew the man behind the caked on grime and what he now knew was a wig. Varys smiled a little and began walking away at a rather slow pace - a pace that Jon was able to keep up with even with his wound playing up a little. Checking around to make sure that no one was watching, Jon was a little bit annoyed that with the masses of people moving down the main streets on either end of the alley, he wasn't any more certain if they were being watched or not.

He was beginning to miss how sparsely populated The North was.

Varys led him to a single door halfway down the alley that he knocked on once. There was a pause before the door was audibly unlocked and pulled open, Varys hurrying Jon inside. Jon's hand gripped his dagger tightly as they were led into the back of what appeared to be a shop's storeroom. He must have looked rather surprised because Varys just smiled wider and the child just looked blankly up at him.

Wait… a child. A child who had known the knock and, logically, would then be working for Varys… his opinion of The Spider fell a little more at seeing him so blatantly using a child as some form of information agent. To have corrupted a child to his purposes, that was something that Jon didn't think he could forgive, even though he was very much aware that his own 'profession' tended to take young boys into their ranks before they were old enough to think better of it.

Maybe he couldn't really talk about not exploiting the younger generation - he knew for a fact that some of the men who had died under his command had been young enough that they'd probably have killed a man before they'd slept with a woman. Not that it was at all surprising to him; he had done the same after all.

Following Varys across the store-room, Jon was led down a trapdoor, which was closed behind them by the same child, leaving them in total darkness. Jon stood perfectly still, dagger clutched tightly in his hand, before light blossomed as the eunuch lit a small candle to light their way,

"I believe we may speak freely now Ser Jon. Well…" he half turned, the flickering light making even his smooth face seem dark and sunken in places, "As free as men such as ourselves ever speak."

Jon frowned and refused to remove his hand from his dagger,

"Lord Varys, what is the meaning of this?" he asked the most pressing question of the moment, "Where is the need for all this skulking?"

The smaller man didn't answer for a few moments of awkward shuffling. The passageway they were traversing was not wide by any stretch of the imagination and the ceiling was getting lower. No wonder The Spider made use of children if this was the kind of pathways they had to use in their line of work. This skulking was most definitely not for Jon however, being this close it was bad for both attacking and defending so it was getting rather on his nerves.

That and having to shuffle along in increasingly cramped spaces was not easy when someone was wearing chain mail under their clothing. But, at the same time, he wasn't about to leave himself without the protection of the coat of mail either.

"The King is dead, Ser Jon."

Considering how close his father was with the Fat King he felt that he probably should have felt more at that declaration but he just didn't,

"Long live King Joffrey?" he asked with a growing frown, "I fail to see why the death of a monarch, much less a death that was expected due to that boar, is the reason why you covered yourself in filth to meet me and why we are now sneaking through a secret passageway."

Of course he had a fairly active imagination and he had been considering what his worst case scenario was when coming to King's Landing. Did this mean that his father and sister had been taken hostage by Joffrey until they swore the loyalty of The North to the young King personally?

Gods he hoped not.

"The reason why we are skulking, as you so aptly put it Ser Jon, is that we are trying to remain unseen." he glanced back over his shoulder again but did not slow down, "Or, rather, so that you can remain unseen. King Joffrey, just a few hours ago, stopped a coup led by your father and his guards."

What?

No, that couldn't be right. Why, by all the Gods old, new and in the fucking flames would his father do something like that? It made no sense! His father was an honourable man who had only ever rebelled against a King on one occasion and that had been the Mad King and his decree that he had to die because of Rhaegar's actions and the resulting actions of Brandon Stark.

No, that couldn't be it. Or at the very least, it couldn't be all there was to know about this situation. With more effort than he would have otherwise thought, Jon took hold of his emotions and did his best to calm himself. He did an adequate job as he no longer wanted to slit Lord Varys' throat in his anger but his heart was still hammering in his chest as he thought about what this meant for his family.

The penalty for attempted regicide was death, with or without the option of trial by combat depending on who was passing judgement.

"I'm going to need some more information soon Varys or I might just forget to keep myself so calm."

Varys tittered and Jon almost launched himself at the man for that little amused sound alone. How dare the fat little eunuch be laughing at him for wanting information about the fate of his father and sister?! He dragged his temper back under control very reluctantly,

"Lord Stark claimed that King Joffrey was not, in fact, Robert Baratheon's son. That he was instead the son of Cersei and Jaime Lannister. A bastard of incest."

Gods above… a bastard of incest? The strange thing was that it made a certain kind of sense actually. Everyone said that Joffrey looked like his Uncle Jaime and it was fact that the boy took after his mother's colouring. There must have been some other information that had led his father to making such a conclusion though - he would have known that this information would have destabilized the entirety of Westeros after all.

"What evidence did he present?"

Varys seemed to be pleased that he had asked the question rather than flying into an emotional rage - even though he sorely wanted to.

"The fact, and it is a fact I assure you, that all of King Robert's many bastard children share his colouring." he paused for effect, "Especially those with blonde hair. It seems that blonde hair breeds weakly against black."

So his father had had evidence that wasn't as strong as it could have been but strong enough for there to have been some scrutiny. Which likely would have shaken loose more facts about the Lannister twins until the suspicions had driven someone else, Stannis most likely, to press the advantage and take the Crown. Such a dutiful man as Lord Stannis would see it as his duty to relieve Joffrey of the throne if he believed he was the product of incest, just as his own father had done.

Not that it had worked for his father apparently.

"A more important question Lord Varys… what has become of my father? Of my sister?" he asked the eunuch impatiently, "A coup that is supported by evidence of incest is all interesting but you know me well enough to know that my primary concern will always be my family."

Varys hummed a little bit,

"And what of the realm Ser Jon?"

Unable to stop the snap that such a question enticed from him, Jon just barked it out,

"Damn the realm!" he roared suddenly, "Let it burn but leave my family safe and I would think the gods kind!"

Jon had stopped still to deliver his outburst but Lord Varys hadn't faltered even slightly and had continued onwards. Catching up with him, Jon managed to catch a single, whispered, phrase from the eunuch,

"Such a pity."

Whatever that meant he was unsure - likely it meant that he was unsuited to being a key part of one of his many plans. But at this point he didn't much care. Yes, Lord Varys had been a supporter of his for quite a long time and he appreciated that but he wasn't eager to get wrapped up in The Spider's web - he'd have to be as addled as Hodor to want to be part of one of the eunuch's plans.

"Your father is due to be executed tomorrow afternoon - they will announce the 'betrayal' tomorrow at dawn and let the crowd fester before killing your father." he announced briskly before a touch of remorse tainted his words, "King Joffrey plans to force your sister, the Lady Sansa, to watch."

If he ever met Joffrey with steel in his hand he swore he would end the little runt of a man before he could cause anyone else any more harm. And for what he had done to his family and to poor Sansa.

But with the reveal of what Joffrey was going to do came the realisation that he was entirely incapable of stopping it. With a few hundred men hidden through these tunnels then it might have been possible to overwhelm the garrison and save his father and his sister. Hells, if he was in the best condition of his life he might be able to sneak in and save the two of them. But as he was now?

He was useless.

He was a martial man and yet martial means would fail him if he attempted them here. Ensuring only that his father died, he died and his sister had to watch the both of them pass to meet with their ancestors. With all of his strength, all of his ferocity and all of his skill, he was still useless to his father and sister right now. Right now they needed a different set of skills and they needed contacts rather than cold steel.

"Lord Varys…" he paused for a moment, "I am a proud man. I don't ever believe I will beg another man… at least not after this. But please… is there anything you can do to help my father? My sister?"

The request seemed to surprise Lord Varys. Did he honestly expect that Jon was going to just demand to know where they were and then immediately leave and embark on some rescue mission that was doomed to fail? No, the surprise melted away too quickly. Likely the older man had merely acted surprised so that it would be less insulting than having the eunuch read his intentions like an open book.

"Ser Jon… you ask too much."

Of course.

The Spider might have more informants, more secrets and more resources than Jon had but he was under no real obligation to actually use them to help him in this situation. Sure, he had worked on The Spider's orders but they had always been done so that they were mutually beneficial. No doubt to ensure that the leverage he sought to use against the man was always out of his grasp.

"My reach has limits…" the Spider said to the fly, "But I may save one of them."

Oh Gods… Gods why was it that something that was better than the nothing he'd had just moments ago felt like it was a thousand times worse? Saving one of them was amazing news but when the price was the life of the other than it could never be considered good news. It was the best offer he was going to get and it was a nigh impossible decision.

If he could ask them it wouldn't be any better either.

Sansa would cry and give him a scolding for even thinking that he should save her rather than their father. Sure, she would cry about how she was going to miss him and the others but she was a strong young woman. She would endure until there was nothing left to endure and she found peace with the Old Gods.

But what if she wasn't killed?

She was a beautiful young woman, flowered and really coming into the age where her beauty shone through. It wouldn't be long before the King decided that he liked the look of his hostage and decided that an heir with the blood ties to the South and the North would be a good thing. And then it would either be a long life of suffering for his sister or a short one, punctuated by crushing sadness.

His father… if he asked his father he would plead for him to save Sansa. And his heart would harden to the point that he might not truly resemble the man Jon happily called his father. Despite the truth that they both knew. And Jon knew that all his father would have to do to get him to agree to save Sansa was to remind him of the promise he had given as a child, a promise that still drove him today.

I will protect our family father.

Lord Varys had led him to a small chamber, just off the side of the main passageway. Inside were a few cases of wine or ale that were coated in dust and a duo of chairs set around a single table. Lord Varys daintily brushed dust off one of the chairs before sitting down, gesturing at the chair opposite him with a patient smile.

It was only as he went to sit down that Jon realised that he was crying. He wiped at his tears with the sleeve of his cloak and tried to swallow the lump that was rapidly growing to fill his throat.

"I take it that you grasp the impossibility of the choice I have presented you with."

Jon just nodded, leaning forwards at the table with his elbows on the wood. Lord Varys took a deep breath before releasing it slowly,

"I do not relish putting you in this situation Ser Jon. Contrary to popular belief, I am, in fact, a man who greatly admires men who sacrifice so much to protect their families."

He was talking to him but Jon knew what he was actually doing was stalling so that Jon could gather his thoughts and find a way to justify his decision to himself before he put it out there. Before the decision was carved in stone and made entirely irreversible. He shuddered a little bit but his tears were near enough silent, only a slight hitch in his voice showing the true level of how much this decision hurt him.

Decision to kill off the Greyjoy's? Easy. They were scum, they were threats to his family and they were people he held no love for.

Decision to kill Jaime Lannister? Not easy but not very hard either. He wasn't the best man but Jon had respected him.

But this decision? It was different. It was the choice between two family members, members of the family he had dedicated himself to. The decision boiling down to saving his loving father or his radiant little sister. But in the end… Jon was actually ashamed how fast he actually came to this decision, even if it did then take more time to convince himself that it was the only real choice,

"Gods damn you for forcing this decision upon me… gods damn Joffrey and whomever his parents truly are…" he closed his eyes tightly, "And gods damn me for this decision I now make. Save… S-Save her…

…Save Sansa."


	29. Chapter 29

AN - Apologies for the delay, I'm afraid there were some delays due to a promotion at work cutting down on some of my writing time.

Valar Morghulis

Cersei

She didn't know what she was going to do.

In the safety and privacy of her own mind she could admit that to herself. It was strange but she felt that, perhaps, saying the truth aloud might make it even harder for her to actually deal with the situation she found herself trapped in. And there was always the possibility that someone would be listening to her, even here in her chambers.

Security of information was paramount and constantly challenged, even when she had long ago sent her handmaidens away and her only guard was stationed outside the room, leaving her clutching her wine goblet alone.

She supposed she was going to have to harden her heart further still and become accustomed to being alone. Certainly, she still had her children but Jaime was gone. Her golden Jaime… he had gone away to war with the Targaryen pretender and she had been so supremely confident that he would come back, just as he always had, with that confident smirk still in place and a twinkle in his eye that he reserved only for her.

And the people in the streets believed she wore mourning clothes for that fat lump of shit that had been her husband. Truly a laughable belief if you asked her.

But nevertheless, she was in mourning. Mourning the loss of the other half of her, her beautiful Jaime. And yet another type of mourning as well, one that only a mother whose child was rejecting them could possibly hope to understand. Added to the grief she was already feeling at the loss of her love, Cersei was brittle in the face of this new attack upon her soul.

Her beloved boy, Joffrey, was now King of the Seven Kingdoms.

It should have been a wonderful time for the both of them but it was so different to how she had imagined it. Already her son was ignoring her, making decisions that he desired with no thought as to her mind on the matter - he was beginning to frighten her as well. Some of the decisions that he wanted to make were rather… polarising. Though she was his mother and would always support him, she found it hard to support some of the decrees.

Having both Eddard Stark and his whore of a daughter, Sansa, locked up in the Black Cells? That was something that she could approve of. The Black Cells were famous of being able to drive men to the brink of madness, capable of bringing even the proudest of lords to their knees. And when they were so broken down… they would say anything to free themselves from their suffering.

And all Cersei wanted Eddard Stark to say was that he had been lying. That Joffrey was indeed the son of Robert Baratheon, even though the very thought of Joffrey being related to that oaf offended her on a deep level. But she would not let the up jumped Northman steal her son's crown from him, even if he was entirely Lannister. In her mind that actually made him much more worthy of the throne - the Gods knew that the Lannister's were far worthier of the Crown than the Baratheon's, brutes and degenerates as they were.

That Sansa was in a cell was more of a personal pleasure than politically useful.

She was certain that some would see Sansa's imprisonment as unjustified, perhaps even cruel. If she was to be a hostage, since she was of noble birth, most would expect her to be confined to her quarters under guard. Cersei would happily admit to herself that the reason she had the Stark girl in the dungeons instead was because of how Joffrey had been looking at her.

Stark had brought his daughter with him, as he said, to enquire about a match at court. Sansa had shown no interest in Joffrey, something that had bristled at the time, and had instead focused on Willas Tyrell when his family had visited court. Later though, Cersei would have been happy if Sansa had continued to never look at Joffrey but her son had seemed interested in the Northern girl, like he had never been interested in any girl before.

Sansa had returned some of the attention, though Cersei's interrogation of the girl's friend after the arrest had revealed she had only been doing it to be polite to the crown prince. It didn't matter to Cersei however - Joffrey was aiming far too low and if she had to starve the Stark girl to prove it? So be it.

It wasn't like the Starks were ever going to see her again to complain about her conditions after all.

Eddard Stark and his daughter would be hostages of the crown to keep their family in line and ensure their continued loyalty to the crown. At least… that was what was supposed to happen. That was the most sensible option and the path that gave them the most leverage over their potential foes.

It was not the path that Joffrey had chosen to take.

Despite her advice, despite the advice of the entirety of the small council as well, Joffrey had declared that he would have Eddard Stark's head, leaving Sansa as their only hostage and The North seething in anger with only a little girl to keep them loyal.

It wasn't going to work as beautifully as Joffrey believed it would because of the way the world worked - the same part of the world that she hated honestly. Because Sansa was not born with a cock, she was nowhere near as useful as her father. On top of that, Eddard Stark was someone The North respected and Sansa was respected merely by proxy - even a fool with a limited knowledge of The North could tell that.

Joffrey knew that but he didn't care. The way he explained it, he wanted to insult The North for the insult their liege Lord had paid him by questioning his parentage. If it had been subtle, or if it had been worked in such a way as to avoid retaliation, then Cersei might have approved. Who was the wolf to question the word of the lion after all? But it was neither and all it would do in the end was invite the wolves to their doors.

If this backfired as badly as she suspected it might then they could face a divide in the Kingdoms, with The North, The Riverlands and The Vale aligned against them. Lord Baelish assured her that Lysa Arryn would not allow The Vale to ride to the aid of The North and The Riverlands should it come to war but she didn't believe him. Even a mad woman such as Lysa Arryn would mobilise her forces when her family was threatened - and the Stark children were half-Tully and Edmure her brother.

This had the potential to backfire terribly but she would ensure that it didn't come to that. She was his mother so Cersei would ensure that any decision Joffrey made, it would be upheld. Regardless of how little she agreed with said decision. He was the King after all - he reserved the right to make any decision he so desired and to have it obeyed to the letter.

A thundering upon her chamber door startled her, causing some of her wine to spill out onto the hem of her dress. She scowled at the stain, knowing that this dress probably cost more than what the person knocking made in half a year! Setting her glass down, she opened the door with a rather aloof look, marred only slightly by a small scowl when she saw that it was her guard, Ser Preston Greenfield.

"Speak, ser."

It was a command and there could be no doubt that it was to be obeyed,

"It's the Lady Sansa, my queen! Something terrible has happened!"

Robb

Sometimes Robb hated being the eldest brother. Sometimes he really did wish that Bran was older than him - his little brother was smarter than him and seemed to have a way of making people understand complicated ideas with just a little bit of discussion. Robb had never had that gift and neither had Jon - they were men of war, not discussion, no matter how much Robb had tried to get the hang of it.

Although, somehow he doubted that Bran would be able to reason through the barely organised chaos that was the assembly of Lords he was currently seated with, situated inside the rebuilt hall of Moat Cailin. Since their father's departure, Robb and Bran had made the reconstruction of Moat Cailin their project, pulling funds from the vaults of Winterfell to shore up the defence of The North from Southern invaders.

He had doubted, at the time, that the South would be a direct threat to them but it seemed that time had proven Bran's caution correct and his own beliefs false.

The Lannister Queen and her son had seized their father and Sansa, using them to try and force them to be obedient to the crown. Why they would possibly do that became clear when two ravens came from Winterfell. The first was from King Joffrey, demanding that he personally come to King's Landing to swear loyalty to him after his father's failed coup attempt. It was utter shite and that much was clear from the first reading - his father would never commit to a coup that would replace his best friend's son.

The second raven had clarified.

Stannis Baratheon had sent a raven declaring that Lord Eddard Stark had uncovered that which he had suspected for some time - which the children of Cersei Lannister were actually her incestuous bastard children. Results of her coupling with her twin brother Ser Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer. If his father had uncovered evidence to suggest such, Robb had no doubt that he would have made an attempt to seat Stannis Baratheon on the throne, as the next in line for the crown.

But the attempt had failed, his father had been captured along with Sansa. And a decision needed to be made as to what The North would do with this knowledge. Hence why the bickering lords of the North were seated in the hall with him, roaring their opinions left and right while he sat at the head of the table, steadfastly ignoring the food that had been placed in front of him at the beginning of the discussion.

He didn't feel like eating when his father and sister were at the mercy of liars and murderers in King's Landing. Everyone knew that Elia Martell had been the glorified hostage of King Aerys and yet the Lannister's had set there mad dog on her. Quite a number of people here questioned if the Lannister's actually knew what the purpose of a hostage actually was. It didn't bode well for his father or for Sansa.

He closed his eyes, finding the cold calm that he had often felt when he had been commanding men under the watchful eyes of his father. Some people, he knew, found themselves better suited to war when their anger was running hot but he didn't. He didn't let his anger get away from him, he controlled it and made it work for him, finding a cold sense of calm even when he had been in the thick of the fighting before.

Holding onto the feeling, Robb stood.

A hush descended over the assembled lords of The North as both Ghost to his left and Grey Wind to his right, stood with him. They didn't growl and Robb didn't need to raise his voice, they just stood and waited. The Lords grumbled a few more things to each other before falling silent as they waited for him to speak.

This was the level of respect that the Stark family commanded. It was the respect his father commanded and it was respect he had begun to command since he had fought, led and bled with these men on the field of battle. He might be young but he was no green boy and they all knew it.

"Queen Cersei Lannister and her children have taken my father and my eldest sister hostage." he declared, pausing for the insults to the Lannister's and Southerners in general to die down before he continued, "For attempting to remove the bastard of Incest that sits upon the Throne of Westeros. That abomination seeks to cow us into submission, to have me present myself at King's Landing and pledge my loyalty to him."

The general roar of disapproval and more arguments that sprung up at this was not something that Robb was able to stop easily so he let it continue instead. No need to rail against the storm and make a fool of himself when he failed to be heard over the sound of the lords shouting at each other.

"The next time a Stark sets foot in King's Landing, it will be to burn that cursed city to the ground!"

That was Lord Karstark.

Usually such a venomous and loud shout would have come from the Greatjon but Lord Karstark had become a much more vocal supporter of the Stark family in recent years. Robb honestly believed it might have had something to do with how his son had been returned to him at great risk to Jon himself, all to honour the man's memory and family.

At least that's what Bran reasoned was why the normally prickly Lord had decided that he was going to be a firm supporter of the Stark family.

"I say we march down there and give those southerners a fucking thrashing!"

Now that was the Greatjon.

There was a general roar of agreement but Robb didn't voice his own opinion just yet. Instead he let the agreement and arguments die down again when the Lords began to realise that he had neither agreed nor had he sat back down. Robb looked around the room for a long few moments,

"We will prepare for war." he rushed to continue before the roar could deafen him, "But we shall not march off to war like Green boys!"

That cut some of them off short so Robb pushed forwards,

"Begin marshalling your forces but know this - we shall not march yet!" he thundered, shouting down any dissenters before they began, "We shall not march blindly into the fray - We shall muster our combined forces to better combat the greater numbers of the South. And when we march we shall not only defeat them on the field of battle… WE WILL SHATTER THEIR KINGDOMS!"

Roars of approval from almost all,

"Send riders to your people! Raise the men! Gather the horses! Let the blacksmiths work through night and day!" he declared, drawing Ice and raising it high in salute, being joined by several of the other Lords, "We will prepare and when we are ready we will rescue our people and teach those soft Lords and Ladies that bastards born of incest do not make demands of The North!"

The Lords roared their approval and many mugs of ale were raised but all Robb could do was sink back into his seat as his thoughts went to his family. And gods have mercy on anyone who harmed them in anyway because Robb knew they would have none from him.

Tyrion

"My royal nephew is a royal buffoon."

Most men who were uncles of royalty would probably do their best to stay in the good graces of said royalty. Not so much for one Tyrion Lannister. Of course he might have entertained the idea of keeping himself in the new King's good graces, had his efforts not been poisoned (perhaps even in the womb) by his dearest sister Cersei long ago. Not only that, but their interests had never really aligned, never giving him a chance to bond with the boy over anything during his formative years.

Or perhaps it was because his nephew was a complete and utter fool?

Considering the only patience he had for fools was to laugh at them for his own amusement, he could see why his relationship with his nephew had never been stellar. But it seemed that as the years had gone by, his nephew had gone out of his way to grow into the complete opposite of Tyrion's personal view of a 'good King'.

With all the bad Kings that Westeros had had, he had foolishly believed that perhaps some of them would have learned from the past, from all the other Kings of Westeros. They had had cruel Kings and foolish Kings but in Joffrey Baratheon the kingdoms were going to face the wrath of a King who seemed to be both in equal measure. He wouldn't be at all surprised if Joffrey managed to take the Seven Kingdoms, a kingdom that had stood for near 300 years, and shatter it before his next nameday.

Of course some of that was his fault and some of it wasn't. Tyrion, of all people, knew that a man was not responsible for the way he came into the world but people would not see it that way. Tyrion had been born a dwarf and had managed to tear his mother apart in his entry to the world – souring his father's love for him and causing his sister to hate for him all their lives no doubt. He didn't blame Joffrey for being a bastard of incest and he honestly didn't think that was why he was the way he was.

Honestly, the boy was a terrible little shit more because of how his sister had raised him than any other possible reason.

Oh and yes, he did believe the 'vile lies' that both Eddard Stark and Stannis Baratheon had been talking about. About how Cersei and Jaime were far too close to merely be brother and sister and how every single one of their children had managed to come out looking exactly like Lannister's, without a single trace of any Baratheon features. That, combined with his sister's complete distain for Robert Baratheon, led him to believe the Lord Paramount of The North and Prince Stannis over his own family.

He was just glad that he hadn't been in King's Landing when Eddard Stark had tried his ill-fated attempt to 'right the balance of power' by throwing his support behind Stannis, the rightful ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, if not the right one the kingdoms needed. Mainly because he was absolutely certain that if he had been there at the time, his beloved sister would doubtlessly have used it as an excuse to do away with him.

Some lies about him being attacked by Stark loyalists in the night perhaps? No, far too subtle for Cersei. Perhaps she would have him brought up on charges as a co-conspirator? That sounded much more like his sister – much more pomp and circumstance behind the public execution of a criminal 'guilty' of attempted regicide after all!

But that was all just from receiving the raven from his father, outlining the entire situation. If he actually thought about the situation more he was certain that he could help his sister and her children but he honestly didn't care right now. He, equally, didn't care about his father's command for him to take command of the forces that were marshalling under the watchful eye of his uncle Kevin.

No, all he cared about was what he had been caring about for days now, since the news had reached the Westerlands. His father had taken the news like a blow to the heart… and had immediately thrown himself into his duties as the Warden of the West, not content to deal with his grief like an ordinary human being. For Tyrion, it was a much simpler thing.

He missed Jaime.

He might have been a sister-fucker whose incestuous love child was bound to doom the kingdoms in some way but he had still been his brother. Sometimes it felt like Jaime was the only person in the Seven Kingdoms who actually cared for him, genuinely cared. And yet now his brother was gone, killed in some field in the southern Stormlands after chasing the stunted dragon that had been Viserys.

Of course he had heard the stories that people were telling about his brother now but that didn't much matter to him. He appreciated the attempts of others to speak about his brother in such glowing terms but he wanted to leave his own mark before he left – hence why he was currently receiving minstrels in the great hall of Casterly Rock rather than helping his uncle prepare the men for the march ahead of them towards the Neck. He waved off their odd looks,

"Ignore me." He pointed to the lead minstrel, "You there. From the top."

The minstrel took a breath and began again.

Through t' Reach, over fen and field where the long grass grows

The West Wind comes walking, and about the walls it goes.

'What news from the West, O wandering wind, do you bring to me tonight?

Have you seen Jaime the Golden Knight, by moon or by starlight?

'I saw him ride over seven streams, over waters wide and grey,

I saw him walk in empty lands until he passed away

Into the shadows of the Storm, I saw him then no more.

The South Wind may have heard the horn of the son of The Old Lion,

'O Kingslayer! From the high walls westward I looked afar,

But you came not from the empty lands where no men are.

Tyrion took a moment to realise that a stray tear had escaped him at the touching song for his brother. It would be a fitting tribute to his brother for now – until such a time as their father was able to commission great statues in his honour at least. He wiped his tear away and, with a careless toss of a leather purse, paid the minstrel,

"Spread the song across Westeros. Add verses as you will." He commanded the minstrel as he strode from the room, "I'm afraid I have an army to lead… pray our armies fare better amongst the bogs of the Neck than the Andal armies of old or you shall all find yourself without patrons!"

Lancel

What was he to make of these letters from his uncle and from his cousin?

His cousin was demanding that he use the control he had over the Order to have them raid and pillage the countryside around them, all to hurt the Starks for Lord Stark's apparent participation in a coup attempt. Completely putting aside how much it rankled that his cousin thought so little of his honour and his duty to his Order, Lancel was hard pressed to truly believe that Lord Stark would ever be involved in such a thing.

One of the benefits of Johnstown being quite close to Winterfell was that Lancel had gotten the chance to meet Lord Stark and, on several occasions, share a table with the man. If there was even a deceitful or ambitious bone in the man's body then it was buried so deep beneath honour, loyalty and duty that it would take cutting the man to pieces to find even a speck of it. It wasn't that the idea of a Lord Paramount leading a coup attempt was ridiculous, it was the fact that his cousin was arguing that the Lord least likely to be behind such an attempt had done so.

If it had been a letter telling him that the Tyrell's or Martell's had attempted a coup? Lancel would have believed it in a heartbeat and would have gathered those knights from the Westerlands that were here to ride south in defence of their families. Seven Hells, it was more believable to him that his own uncle, Lord Tywin Lannister, would be behind a coup than it was that Eddard Stark would carry out such a plot.

He doubted that many of the men would believe it either to be honest, even some of the knights who had come from the Westerlands with him. To say nothing of the fact that the majority of the men were either from the North, where a Stark's word was valued more than gold, or from the Riverlands, where Lord Stark was still greatly respected from his marriage to the Tully woman, so it was more likely they would string him up for suggesting such slander against Lord Stark than believe the tale.

Which meant that he was going to ignore his cousin's mad calls to begin pillaging at once. Even if the Starks were now enemies of his family, something he had yet to be convinced of, he wouldn't take the pain out on the smallfolk. They hadn't done anything and he had developed a new appreciation for the smallfolk and their protection, ever since the small town had sprung up around the keep and he been forced to have more interactions with their kind than he ever had before.

Being a Lannister of Casterly Rock meant that Lancel hadn't really had many dealings with the smallfolk until he was a knight.

And now his cousin, now the King, was demanding that he cause those pathetic people pain all because he believed the Starks, the family known for loyalty in recent years, were his enemies? Lancel had already made up his mind as to the contents of his return raven to his cousin. Hells, the raven would be sent via Winterfell and the Stark's own maester would be the one to send it back. They hadn't read his mail on its way in and that was not the actions of an enemy as far as he was aware.

The subtler forms of warfare had always been something that his Bolton friend stressed, but it had never appealed to Lancel himself. Even he knew that you starved an enemy of information if you could - though that was one of those lessons he had learnt from his father before he had made the journey north.

But in the end it came back to the same issue - King Robert was dead. That wasn't a story and it wasn't open to interpretation, the man was dead and Joffrey was his heir, meaning that Joffrey was now King of the Seven Kingdoms. Which meant to disobey his command was to disobey the order of the King of the land.

The Lords of Winter may be sworn to defend the North, but they were all still subjects of the King on the Iron Throne and were accountable to him, the Lord Paramount of the North and the Gods alone. Sitting alone in the room that had been Jon's before his exile, but that now served as his own quarters, Lancel took the raven's scroll his cousin had sent him and set it alight with the lone candle upon the writing desk.

Once the fire had caught he dropped the paper to the stone window ledge, letting it burn itself out as he stared at the last message he had received.

Some might find it odd that he saw this message as the more important of the two, considering he had just burnt a letter from the King himself. But when Tywin Lannister wrote to you, you tended to think of it as somewhat more important than pretty much anything else that was in your life at the time because the Gods help you if you left Tywin Lannister waiting for your response. He paused at the knock upon the door,

"Enter."

Lancel hid the letter with his hand until he noticed that the knight entering was none other than Ser Humfrey Swyft, his second cousin on his mother's side and a loyal knight of both House Lannister and the Lords of Winter. Perhaps one of the only men here who could truly understand the kind of bind he was in right now. His cousin closed the door behind him,

"I read the scroll from Lord Tywin when I brought it to you. What will you do?"

He wasn't surprised - a raven scroll from Tywin Lannister was something that any man from the Westerlands would have been interested in. Lancel clicked his tongue once in acknowledgement, just looking down at the incredibly brief message that his uncle had written to him.

Hear me roar.

A not so subtle reminder of which family Lancel belonged to and a rather blatant push for his duty to his family to override his duty to the North and to the Order. Lancel set the scroll alit as he had done with the message from King Joffrey, though this time he held the paper in his hand long enough to hurt as he just watched it burn, his mind and heart at war.

Dropping the burning scroll, Lancel looked up at his second cousin,

"I will do as any true knight should - I will do my duty."

Sansa

This was wrong.

She had been rather intrigued with the idea of Princes, Kings and Queens when she was younger. Her mother had read her all the stories from the oldest of them to the newest - the songs of beautiful Princesses being rescued from some danger by their heroic knights, marrying and then ruling justly and fairly for the rest of their days.

The happily ever after.

Which was the farthest thing from what King's Landing; with its royals and their sordid affairs and lives, actually was when she had arrived. She hadn't been a little girl in a long time but she had, somewhat foolishly, held out hope that maybe the capital of the Seven Kingdoms would be as splendid as all the songs said it would be.

The Gods knew she had been disappointed upon meeting the royals themselves back at the tournament of Harrenhall.

King Robert Baratheon, a fat shadow of his former self if her father's tales rang true. His Queen, Cersei, who was as pretty as the gold her father's workers dragged from the land and about as cold to be honest. Tommen and Myrcella were nice enough in their own ways but they were constantly afraid. At first, Sansa hadn't really understood why they were afraid. Of course she knew that Joffrey had a darker side - he had shown it clearly against the enemies of the Realm after all. But Jon had a darker side as well and Sansa had never feared him, secure in the knowledge that her brother, while a monster to those that threatened them, was nothing short of lovely and caring towards his loved ones.

Surely Joffrey would be the same?

Of course she had been proven wrong. Even with her father taking the position of Hand of the King and making moves to seek out a husband for her, Prince Joffrey had followed her with lust in his eyes and a certain cruelty that he seemed to think would impress her. Punishing a fool for, well, being a fool. And threatening to kill Prince Tommen's little cat, Ser Pounce! As if the little creature had ever done anything wrong in its life.

Sansa had helped to raise her brother Bran so she knew that sometimes boys were rougher and meaner than they really meant to be. Bran had lorded his high-born status over the butcher's boy for almost half a year before he grew out of the phase and actually apologised for some of the crueller pranks he had pulled on the boy. Sansa had been very proud of her little brother for his growth, just as she imagined that their mother would have been.

Perhaps it wasn't so strange then that she found her thoughts drifting away from the royal family and focusing on her own and their plight.

Her father… she supposed he was in a cell of his own. He had shared his belief with her that Joffrey and his siblings were actually born of incest between the Queen and her brother Jaime… and the evidence that she had managed to push her father to reveal to her tended to suggest that her father was right. To many of the men she had met while at court, it would have been the perfect chance for their House to seize the power of the throne by using one of the 'Baratheon' children as a puppet. But rather than taking the throne's power for himself, her father had sought to conduct a bloodless coup to install Stannis Baratheon as King - the rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms.

Though what support had Stannis shown her father's loyalty? Nothing. He had apparently withdrawn to Dragonstone and had just sat there while her father had messaged him time and time again requesting he come to court. In the end her father didn't have any choice but to go ahead with the plan without the physical support of either of the Baratheon brothers, relying on Littlefinger's aid as an old friend of her mother's.

Apparently it had not been enough.

The Stark men who had been stationed outside her chambers to protect her in case of trouble had been killed to a man by red-cloaked Lannister men, who had dragged her through the halls of the Red Keep before throwing her in one of the red cells, where she had remained ever since. She hadn't seen anyone else and she didn't 'know' that her father was captured as well but she found the idea of him remaining free unlikely.

The sheer number of red-cloaks who had killed her father's men to abduct her? There was no way that the Lannister's weren't aware of the plan before it had gone ahead, which meant either someone had been forced to talk or had willingly betrayed them. Sansa might not be a leader of men like Robb, might not have been quite as smart as Bran, or have the determination of Arya, but she was rivalled only by Jon in her love for their family. As she sat there in the filth and cold of the black cell, Sansa swore by her father's gods and her departed mother's as well - she would make sure whomever had betrayed her family would suffer before they died.

They had imprisoned her with their actions, endangered her family and had either imprisoned or, gods forbid, killed her father.

This was all so wrong - her father had done nothing wrong. All he had done was uphold the laws of the land and the King, Joffrey the bastard of incest, was going to punish her entire family. This was so far removed from the songs and the stories that she remembered her mother telling her that she could almost feel the exact moment when what little innocence of her childhood remained just snapped under the pressure.

She had been taking on the responsibilities of the Lady of Winterfell for years now, meaning she hadn't really had time to be a young woman. Her duty to her family had come first after all. But throughout it all she had kept a core of her childhood secure, her father making sure that she still had time with her friends around Winterfell so that she didn't assume the role completely and lose what little joy of childhood she had left.

But what good would that slither of childhood do her now? None. She needed to harden herself in the same way she had seen happen to others in the court and she would need to learn how to play their game. Winterfell, the North, had its own version of the infamous "Game of Thrones" but it had a very different set of rules, including honour and duty. Of course the game here in King's Landing was without rules, meaning it could be boiled down rather easily to one rule alone.

The strong ate the weak.

And Sansa couldn't afford to be weak anymore. She resolved, even as she shivered, knees against her chest, in the cell, that she would be free before long and she would make sure that the royal family knew that she was not going to be a meek hostage to their whims.

So focused was she on her new resolve that she didn't hear the cell door opening.

Varys

Varys had done some truly distasteful things in his life.

He had sold his body for years and he had taken both money and secrets for such a service. From there he had ascended, using the money to discover more secrets and those secrets, in turn, to gain more money. And each and every transaction had been built on a basis of shattered trust, to begin with. But as the secrets grew darker and the amounts of money larger, blood became the concrete of his empire of subterfuge and lies.

Using either the money or the secrets he pressed people into his service as spies, as messengers and, on occasion, as assassins. Through them he had changed the course of many events - recent history was as it was today because of his little birds, all carefully directed from his place in the centre of the 'web' as it were.

The spider who grew fat on the strife of the Realm; that was what some people called him. Of course they were right in one way - he had a web. He was connected to so many people, had control over so many people, that it was almost impossible to name a House he had not infiltrated. The Realm may have all bowed to the King on the Iron Throne but a few moons ago, but it was much more connected to the Spider.

Though the rumours that almost every bit of foul play in the Realm could be placed at his feet were just that - rumours - there was some truth hidden away within those stories. After all, in most of the important instances of terrible things happening to influential people, the Spider was either the one to spin the web or he was aware of the plan as it was formed, while it was executed and when, or if, it came undone.

With all this information, all those plots whirling around… it was rather difficult for Varys to find something distasteful and it was practically unheard of that he would feel either an ounce of guilt. After all, no matter how horrible an action, what he did was a service to the Realm and had to be conducted with the utmost professionalism, decorum and discretion.

Though, in this case, the discretion would be more of a safety feature for himself than it had been for many years.

After all - Ser Jon Whitewolf was a man well known for slaughtering those who had done harm to his family. And for all the good Varys had done the man's family by absconding with Lord Eddard from the Black cells, he doubted the young knight would forgive him for the way he had had his men deal with Sansa Stark.

Varys had forced himself to watch as the two thugs he had hired tore the Lady Sansa's clothes from her body before violating her, over and over again. Through the bile that threatened to escape up his throat, Varys had ordered the men to complete the task they had been paid to accomplish.

And he had watched as the two cut-throats from Flea Bottom actually looked a little apprehensive before carrying out his order… and smashed Sansa Stark's skull apart against the stone floor of her cell.

The timing was right after all.

Ser Gregor Clegane had recently entered the city with more Lannister men, to aid King Joffrey in keeping order within the capital while Lord Tywin was making certain that the Riverlands did not rise to defend their family and Lord Tyrion went to check the Northern advance at the Neck.

A Lannister knight with a history of murder within the Red Keep on the orders of Tywin Lannister, specifically a history of committing an atrocity exactly like this one? The smallfolk would talk and his little birds would spread the story far and wide - Tywin Lannister had ordered Gregor Clegane to rape and murder Sansa Stark as an example to Lord Eddard, the rest of the Starks and the realm as a whole.

A warning against threatening the Lannister's in anyway.

Of course, Varys reflected as he watched Ser Jon howl with unrestrained fury and grief in the secret tunnels beneath the keep, the message wouldn't be heeded. He had absolutely no doubt that Ser Jon was going to make sure to get some measure of revenge from the Lannister's before he passed from this world. A man of passions and skill like Ser Jon Whitewolf was very unlikely to forget.

Even Lord Eddard Stark, a man praised for his honour and sense of duty, was thinking dark thoughts. He wasn't as animated as his baseborn son however, he just fixed a point on the opposite wall with the darkest look that Varys could ever recall seeing on a man's face. And this was quite some feat, considering the Kings that he had served.

No doubt the rest of the Stark family would be just as incensed as their patriarch and baseborn brother. The conflict that would follow this would be less about honour and duty, as it would have been had Eddard Stark simply followed Stannis Baratheon to war. This conflict would be a bloody war waged with the fate of the Lions and Wolves in the balance. Even if the Riverlands and the Vale did not join with the North, as he suspected they might not, this conflict would tear the realm apart.

Some might say that went against his goal, of a united and strong Realm.

Those people would be short-sighted fools.

The Seven Kingdoms of Westeros could only be ruled by the right kind of ruler with the right family name to back them. Of course the world was quickly running out of people with the right family behind them - young Aegon had been betrayed by his uncle, the mad-dog Viserys had had to be put down and the bastard had proven himself ill-suited to the throne. But there was still one more, one more Targaryen out there in the world who could unite the Seven Kingdoms again and rule justly.

And despite the small measure of guilt he felt at the measures he had taken, Varys knew that having a just, wise and sane Targaryen on the Iron Throne was worth any number of rapes and murders of innocent young women. With the Realm splintered by civil war, it would be that much easier for the rightful Queen to sweep in with her dragons and her armies, taking the kingdoms by surprise and fire.

And when Daenerys Targaryen sat atop the Iron Throne, Varys knew that the guilt he felt over the fate of Sansa Stark would be worth it because the Realm would again, finally, know true peace.


	30. Chapter 30

AN - Sorry for the delay. I take Christmas preparation very seriously.

Blockade

Gods damn it.

Was it not enough that he had lost his sister? Was he going to be forced to lose the man who was his father? That sounded about right. If the Gods existed then surely they were punishing him for his decision to ask Varys to save Sansa rather than the Lord of the North. It truly did seem to him that he was being punished through his father for daring to choose Sansa as the one who should have lived rather than their father.

But if it was the Gods who had set these trials in their way for his decision… then fuck them.

What kind of Gods would ask that an innocent young woman be sacrificed for them? None that could be worthy of worship in Jon's mind at least. But he supposed that blasphemy was probably the worst thing he could be doing right now.

Considering the Gods might well be the reason why he was hiding behind a tree as a Lannister patrol inches past on the road, his father hiding behind a tree on the other side.

Neither of them was truly dressed for battle and not particularly well-armed either. Sure, Red Rain was a beautiful blade and it would greedily drink in the blood of their Lannister foes… but he was but one man against a clean dozen, all of them mounted. Not to mention they were fully armoured and he was wearing some leathers under a traveller's cloak, the only thing that Varys had equipped the both of them with aside from a small pack of bread each for the journey.

Barely five days' worth of food to reach Moat Cailin from Kings Fucking Landing? Yeah, he guessed it would have been a touch too hard even for the Spider to sneak a wagon of food out of the city when famine was striking the land. But some bigger packs would have been appreciated.

A nearby snort from a horse caused Jon to freeze, his right hand clutching Red Rain's hilt as his left held its crossbar to steady it as he slowly began to draw the blade. Thankfully it was near silent as it slid from its home.

He was almost as eager as his blade to take the head of whatever Lannister guardsman was currently only a few feet on the other side of the tree that sheltered Jon. Making sure that he didn't draw it fully yet, Jon tried to ignore how much his legs were beginning to hurt from standing exactly still from the moment he had spotted the Lannister men making their way closer down the road.

He did his best to ignore their idle chat as he just stood there, back against the tree.

It was fucking dusk already… where the fuck were the planning on camping out for the night?!

Oh.

Oh come on!

Jon chanced a look around the edge of the tree, getting a second's glance before returning to his original position with his tongue currently being bitten to keep him from reflexively cursing.

Of course it seemed that the one Lannister patrol they had run across in the last three days was actually not a patrol – it was a road block instead. Traffic in the Riverlands had been something of a high point to their economy so it made a certain amount of sense for the Lannister's to be sending some of their men out to block off any attempts at trade. They'd also be a pretty good early warning system as, to the best of Jon's knowledge, only the Blackfish was a commander known for being able to march his men across country with any degree of success and stealth.

Everyone else used the roads – which were now being watched by Lannister eyes.

It was rather clever, it had to be said, but Jon wasn't much appreciating how clever the whole idea was when he was the one who was being boxed in by the execution of the plan. Funny how people appreciated things differently when they were in danger from them.

So Jon waited.

He waited as the man closest to his tree went back over to the majority of the men and he waited as he began to hear tents being erected and a fire being kindled. What the fuck were they going to do? Sure, it was beginning to get dark but he doubted they'd both be able to break away from the roadside without making a sound.

And then they'd be run down like dogs by men on horseback.

Jon liked his odds against one mounted man, on his best day. He knew enough methods to either unhorse the man or turn his advantage into a disadvantage. But a dozen mounted men? Gods no. He could take a few of them down before he died but that wasn't what he wanted to be doing – he wanted to live long enough to get his father home safe. He wanted to stand beside his brothers and get justice for Sansa's death by spilling more than her weight in the blood of Lannister men.

So as much as it rankled, he stayed put and he didn't move. Even as the sun rapidly began to set and the Lannister's became slightly drunker, Jon didn't move. He did, however, fully draw Red Rain when he thought he was safe enough to do so, his sword held low but ready to be swung upwards in either direction, depending where the threat came from.

And the threat would come, he knew.

The Lannister men weren't foolish – they knew well enough that sentries were needed when you made camp. The sentry on Jon's side of the road? Well Jon was just very happy that he was currently tending to the horses, which acted as somewhat of a barrier between Jon and the main campfire. His grip on Red Rain tightened as he heard the man moving closer through the light sounds of his footfall.

Taking a deep breath, Jon held it for a moment.

The time for staying hidden was going to be coming to an end soon and Jon was going to do his level best to make sure that the revelation was a fucking short one. All it would take was one life and he would be clear for a while. The life of one sentry… it wasn't like he wasn't going to be killing men in their droves before he was finished with the Lannister's.

A young man in boiled leather armour stepped past Jon's tree, his footing clumsy and his gaze far off. He was a fucking idiot. Jon acted, clamping a hand over the sentry's mouth and bringing the cold steel up to the man's throat as he pulled him back up against the tree. There was a small commotion from the other side of the tree as some of the other Lannister men heard the fumble and the snaps of several twigs,

"Here! You alright out there Pod?!"

Jon pressed the edge of Red Rain against the other man's Adams apple and held his hand over his mouth tightly for a moment longer.

"You're fine." He whispered harshly into the other man's ear, "Say it. Make something up and make it believable."

The young sentry nodded urgently and Jon, despite his misgivings, slowly removed his hand from over the man's mouth. There was a pregnant pause for a second where Jon didn't know if he had succeeded in gaining an advantage for himself and his father or if he had doomed the two of them. Or himself at least – though he doubted his father, even grief-stricken as he was, would just leave him to the blades of the Lannister's.

Blessedly, the moment passed.

"I-I jus' tripped is all!" the sentry called back, a small tremor in his voice but it was mostly steady still, "Bloody dark out here!"

A believable lie… and that was all this fucker could come up with? A fucking sentry tripping over his feet? Even in the dark, a man designated as sentry was, at the least, someone who had good enough eyesight to see threats coming in different lights. He was preparing to cut the man's throat and lead the Lannister's on a merry chase away from the road when they started laughing.

"Ah typical!" the speaker from before declared, "Podrick Payne… and they said you'd be trouble cus'a yer family! Ha!"

What the actual fuck?

Were the Lannister's so confident in their superiority on the field of battle that they had never even bothered to ensure that they properly trained their sentries? The captive laughed along a little bit until the rest of the patrol went back to whatever it is they were doing. Honestly, it probably wouldn't be too long until they fell asleep, which would give himself and his father enough of a chance to leave.

Or to slaughter them all in their sleep, depending on which option his father approved of.

A few months ago, Jon could have confidently stated that his father would never approve of his idea to slaughter men while they slept. But now? Well the Lannister's had done what most people had deemed impossible a long time ago – they seemed to have broken something inside Eddard Stark. The burning of his father, strangulation of his eldest brother and abduction of his sister had all come close but he had clung to his honour, his morals.

Killing his eldest daughter however? The daughter who took after his late lady wife in so many ways but with Stark pride, honour and sensibilities included? That might have been the last thing he could take before he broke in that particular way.

Jon was no stranger to a killing rage, the battle-madness as some would call it. And right now? His father had the look of a man who was only ever going to be a step or two away from launching into the red haze himself.

This in mind… this might be the only chance he had to get some information from one of the Lannister men. Jon grunted quietly,

"Good." He muttered, "Podrick Payne was it? Now you listen and you listen closely. I'm going to ask you some questions and you're going to answer them. You lie to me…?"

He pressed the blade closer and Podrick flinched slightly,

"And I slit your throat and get one of the others to answer my questions." He declared in a venomous whisper, "First question… what the hell is your patrol doing here?"

He moved the edge of his blade a little further away from his captive's throat so that he could speak without fear of cutting himself just by the action of speaking alone. Jon exercised patience when all Podrick did for the first few seconds was to take deep breaths in an attempt to calm himself. It suited his purpose for the man to be calm enough to recognise that answering was in his best interests.

"W-we're scouts… using a blockade on the road to be able to give warning should a host be travelling this way." He whispered back urgently, "Lord Tywin is besieging Riverrun and wants warning if any of the Riverlords will be coming to the Tully's aid…"

Which they probably already should have done by now to be honest.

The only reason Jon could think for their delay was that the Lannister's had likely made a total mess of much of the Riverlands in their march for Riverrun. That and Riverrun was, near enough, in the exact centre of the Riverlands, meaning that any of the surrounding lords would somehow have to find a way to sneak around Tywin Lannister in order to link up into a big enough force to actually pose a threat to the Lannister host.

That reminded him.

"How large is Tywin's host?" he asked in the same harsh whisper as before, "Estimate if you have to. And don't lie to me…"

The growl at the end of that seemed to be what got Podrick to actually talk.

"Twenty thousand…" he whispered back fearfully, "I heard one of the lords talking about it…"

Twenty thousand was… well it was a sizable army, make no mistake about it. But it didn't sound right for the might of the Westerlands. Of course the men of the Westerlands had been involved in the fighting against Viserys and the armies of the Three Daughters but still, twenty thousand seemed a little bit thin.

And as far as Jon knew, there wasn't an overwhelming need for another ten thousand or so men to be marauding through the Riverlands when it had been all but proven that clusters of a hundred or so were very effective at raiding the lands surrounding the castles of the Riverlords, ruining their livelihood but still not being enough to tempt any single Riverlord from the behind the safety of their walls when they would be outnumbered, in some cases, just by the raiding parties Tywin had been sending out.

Jon had to despair a little when he thought about the Riverlords… some of the 'richer' lords here had less men to call on than the Flints of Flint's Finger for Gods' sakes!

Of course the Riverlands had been the sight of many a battle during Robert's Rebellion and its Lords had offered up many men in defence of the realm first against the Greyjoy's in their first rebellion and then again against the forces of the Three Sisters. He supposed that it made sense that they were this vulnerable – they had no natural defensive points other than the fords of their rivers and they had been bled white more than any other realm during the last fifty years or so.

And they were his father's strongest allies outside the North.

Gods be good but the situation wasn't the best they could have found themselves in. Of course with his father now free, the original reason for calling the banners and marching south was voided… to be replaced by a fierce desire for bloody vengeance over Sansa's death.

"And the rest?"

There had to be more to Tywin's plans.

He would never commit himself entirely to a siege at Riverrun, not when word had reached all parts of the Riverlands that the Stark banners had been called and were doubtlessly going to be marching south. It would have trapped Tywin's forces between the hammer of Robb's forces and the anvil of the walls of Riverrun and its vengeful garrison.

No, if Jon could see the folly of such an action then Tywin would have caught it in half the time and dismissed the idea before even wasting breath to voice it.

"L-lord Tyrion…" Podrick swallowed rather thickly, prompting Jon to move his blade slightly further from his neck lest the man slit his own throat against the blade in his nervousness, "He has taken command of fifteen thousand men and has ridden for the Neck…"

Shite.

The Neck was a great bottleneck – which had served the Starks well when southern armies had attempted to march North. But a bottleneck worked both ways. With fifteen thousand men on one end, it would take Robb time, and a lot of lives, to push his way out of the North and into the Riverlands.

And by the time he did, Tywin hoped to have already brought the Riverlands to heel so he could bring his entire host to bare against the men of the North with little worry about his flanks or rear. It made sense and it would be a tough fight to get out of.

Jon sighed a little bit, wanting to run his hand through his hair in frustrating but being unable to do so in his current position.

"M-my lord?"

The fuck?

Jon raised an eyebrow that went unseen by the Payne as he considered just slitting the young man's throat and being done with it. But he had given him information and Jon was curious enough about what the man had to say to stay his hand for now. He hoped he wasn't going to regret his suddenly rather merciful demeanour.

"Ser." He whispered back to the other man, "Not a lord. But speak your peace Podrick Payne and speak it quick and quiet."

There was a second's silence,

"Will you kill me?"

Good question.

Could he? Definitely. Would he? Well that remained to be seen. That and he needed to know if this son of a Lannister bannerman actually had anything else he could actually give him. In the end he shrugged his shoulders a little bit, his sword lightly moving up and down on Podrick's neck,

"I may well do." He admitted easily, "I suppose you'd have to convince me in order to live."

This should be darkly amusing.

Jon had never thought of himself as a sadistic man but sometimes he had to admit that some of the things men promised when they were staring death in the face were rather amusing. Bandits who offered their lives up to the Nights Watch, the city watch of Winterfell and even a few who had offered to fuck him to live. Not that the Ironborn or sellswords of the Three Daughters had been much better mind you – he just hadn't really been able to hear much of their pleas over the sounds of battle.

Of course there was also the possibility that it was going to get a little depressing too.

As much as John chuckled in private about some of the outlandish pleas and claims of some, an equal number of heartfelt pleas to see loved ones kept him awake at night. How many men had called out for their mothers when he had torn them asunder? Almost all of them in the end.

So as much as this could go one of two ways, Jon was really hoping it would be a pleas or pledge that he could chuckle about later.

"Take me with you."

Okay, that wasn't a new one for Jon.

Some of the bandits that he had come across with the Lords of Winter had yielded almost immediately upon realising who had come hunting them. A few of the bandits had even requested to come with them, to join up or to work in the town surrounding the keep. Of course he'd made sure to imprison them and interrogate them thoroughly before he allowed even one of them to join up.

If they were proven to be murderers he took their head.

If they had attempted, or succeeded, to sell their fellow men into slavery, he took their head.

If they had raped women, he took their head.

But more than a few of them had simply been starving men who had decided that poaching animals and stealing from homes was better than starving to death. Those lived and some of them had stood shoulder to shoulder with Jon as he relieved Winterfell.

No stranger to allowing his captive enemies to live under him, Jon didn't immediately reject the offer,

"What can you give me, alive, that I would not be able to claim from your corpse?"

He didn't freeze, Jon would give him credit for that at least.

"I can help you move through the Riverlands… my name might not be the most powerful in the Westerlands but it is well-known." He whispered with mounting urgency, "With me working with you… we can slip by many patrols. Perhaps even gain entry to some captured keeps if you were so inclined."

There were some thirty thousand Lannister men between them and their family… his father might well object but Jon honestly could see the young man's point. With a Podrick Payne they could reasonably argue that they were messengers from one of the scouting parties with orders to be delivered. He knew, better than Jon and his father at least, the positions of Lannister-controlled keeps and roadblocks, knew the lords in command and probably some information about them that hadn't filtered out to the North.

Lancel had never been chatty about the Westerlands considering how much he said he had disliked living there.

"Deal."

Before Podrick could relax too much, Jon moved.

Wrapping his arm around the Payne's neck, he cover his mouth with his free hand and held the struggling young man firm in his hold as he choked him. The struggles were quietened by Jon wrapping his legs around the man's body from behind, limiting the man's range of movement. After the struggles stopped, he kept the hold for a few seconds longer before releasing the young man, hold his hand a little away from his mouth as his airway was released.

Jon felt a faint but steady breath against his skin and knew he hadn't killed the young man.

Moving away from the unconscious Westerlander, Jon clutched his sword tightly in hand as he stood behind his tree, straining to hear if the commotion had alerted any of the patrol to his location. There was a quiet conversation going on but not much else. Most of the patrol had likely gone to sleep, confident in Podrick as their screening element and the few awake men as their inner alarm system.

From his now 'slumbering' companion Jon filched a knife, testing its edge briefly before deciding that it would be good enough. Holding it ready in his left hand, Jon took a deep breath and checked around the edge of the tree.

Three of the dozen were awake, two sitting around a small fire in the middle of their little camp while the other was humming away to himself, cock in hand, as he relieved himself against a tree on the far side of the road from Jon.

Stepping out from behind the tree, Jon started walking slowly towards the camp, gaining some speed when he realised that those within hadn't immediately spotted him. With their eyes adjusted to the light of the fire, it was likely they literally couldn't see him in the dark as he was. He took advantage of this as best he could, passing two men asleep on the edge of the camp, Red Rain bringing a gurgle forth from one as it bit his throat apart while he had to kneel down to stab his borrowed knife into the eye of the other, silencing his snoring instantly.

One of the men by the fireside was looking in his direction, the other's body was turned away from him. The one facing him, naturally, saw him first, his eyes going wide and a shout of alarm forming on his lips. With a savage growl, Jon stabbed his knife into the shoulder of the man facing away from him, yanking his body backwards as Red Rain slashed upwards from near his hip, slicing through skin and bone to bisect the other's face before he could cry out.

Of course the man with a knife in his shoulder screamed bloody murder even as Jon's momentum took the man to the ground. Before he could muster up an attack of his own, Jon yanked his knife free, only to stab it back down again, slightly higher this time. A new hole in the side of the man's neck erupted in blood and air as he continued to try and scream, no doubt wasting what precious little air remained in his body with the instinctive reaction to try and vocalise his pain.

Others were stirring now but his father had taken the opportunity, cutting down the pissing man when he had turned to face Jon before falling upon the groggy soldiers of the Lannister's with a fury that Jon had never seen in his father before.

He didn't question it, he just faced some of the waking men himself, pinning one man to the ground with Red Rain through his kidney as he tried to crawl to where he had kept his weapons. He withdrew his sword, leaving the man writhing in agony on the ground as he met a clumsy over-head swing of another's sword with his own, using his knife to cut the wrist of the man's sword arm, causing him to drop the sword, allowing Jon to thrust his sword into the man's throat.

When he tore his blade free it was only by luck that the man wasn't entirely decapitated with the force. Either way, Jon was soaking in the blood of his enemies already and a look to his father showed that he wasn't the only one.

But there were no more enemies to stand against them now, just a man screaming for his mother as he tried to keep his kidney and blood inside him with his hands.

His father nodded to the dying man without a word and Jon understood. He moved to the man, not pausing as the man begged for his life, raising Red Rain high before slashing down; cleaving the man's head from his shoulders in one flash of Valyrian steel.

Taking a step back from the carnage they had wrought on the wholly unprepared blockade force, Jon took a moment to examine his father. The older man was covered in blood from the front, his plain steel sword literally dripping with viscera. There was a look of almost… calm? On his father's face that probably should have unnerved him but instead it was actually reassuring. He had heard that his father had been called "The Quiet Wolf" during Robert's Rebellion by some of the bannermen for how he went into battle without any of the roaring or growling of many other men in the heat of battle, just a noticeable calm and relentless drive.

It would be nice to see how many Lannister quaked before the calm fury of his father before they were home in the North again.

"The scout?"

His father's voice was scratchy from a lack of use but it carried over the silence of their surroundings fairly well. Jon wiped Red Rain clean of filth on one of the red cloaks of the Lannister men, sheathing it before tossing the knife aside.

Podrick wouldn't need it.

He dragged the unconscious young man back to the camp, setting him down on the ground in front of his father. His father didn't ask. He merely looked at Jon, his sword dripping blood onto the young Payne's face as he just stood there.

"Podrick Payne." He told his father simply, "He can be useful to us father."

A snort of what seemed like genuine amusement for a moment before the instant passed,

"The cousin of a landed knight? Hardly a useful hostage, even if we had the capability of holding him ourselves."

Of course not – no one was going to stay their blade for Podrick Fucking Payne's life.

"He has other uses to us father. He knows the positions of Lannister men far better than we and has offered his services in exchange for his life. With him we can walk to the Neck or we would walk straight into a Lannister-occupied keep."

His father looked at Jon for a few moments before looking down at Podrick with a frown,

"We would be trusting a man who is forsaking his liege lord out of fear. Such a man does not make a good ally."

Point.

But Jon had already thought of that,

"We don't trust him – we trust in his cowardice father. We know he doesn't want to die, to the point that he betrayed his lord. So we continue to trust that he would rather continue to betray his countrymen than feel our steel." He paused for a moment, "An oathbreaker you cannot trust to keep his word – but you can always trust a coward to be a coward."

They took armour that fitted, that which was not Lannister red in any case, and horses each as they moved deeper into the Riverlands.

Podrick was still covered in some of his own vomit from his reaction to finding out that parts of intestine had dripped onto his face.


	31. Chapter 31

**AN – Thank you again to all reviewers. Title of this chapter comes from one of the possible names you can choose for your Valyrian Steel sword in the Crusader Kings II Game of Thrones mod.**

The Father's Fury

Jon hadn't really expected to have much time to just sit and chat with his father – they were evading enemy forces in a land that neither of them was all too familiar with while using a defector to help avoid any more of the scheduled patrols.

Of course they had done their best to stack the odds in their favour a little bit. Both Jon and his father had cut their hair and beards as short as possible with their knives. Jon didn't much enjoy having so little hair but he realised that some of the knights and Lords in the Westerlands had probably seen him at some point – most of them had definitely seen his father at some point during the last three wars.

Podrick… well they actually didn't need to do anything to change the young Lordling, he was actually a part of their smokescreen. So far the young man he had taken hostage at sword-point seemed to actually be doing his best to prove himself useful to them in their cause. Was he that starved for praise with the Westerlands hierarchy that he would respond so positively to just some small praise from Jon and his father?

It seemed that way so far and that was, in Jon's own opinion, rather suspicious.

House Payne might not have been a rich House but they were rather respected in the Westerlands if his memory served him right. Some of the comments the young man had made about the Westerlands had caused Jon to consider that his reason for actively aiding them was out of some sense of honour – the young man had expressed his desire to be a knight after all.

And he hadn't seen enough battle yet to know that knights were, more often than not, simply better killers than men-at-arms. Not the 'champions of justice' that the stories and songs made them out to be. Of course, that might simply have been Jon's cynical nature talking. Some of his friends within the Lords of Winter were both brutally efficient fighters and still filled with knightly virtues despite it all.

Lancel Lannister sprang to mind actually.

But regardless of the reasons, the outcome was still the same – Podrick Payne was doing everything he could to actually assist them in their journey, far beyond what would be expected of a hostage. Jon wasn't about to stop keeping any eye on the Westerlander but he wasn't going to gut the young man for something that he might do in the future – not when there was no inkling that he would actually act against them.

While Jon had proven with the Greyjoy's that he didn't ever rule out a pre-emptive strike, he still had enough honour and sense to actually have a reasoned argument before striking as hard as he was known to. No point in exterminating people simply because they might be enemies in the future – the sense was only in exterminating those who you knew would be a threat in the future.

But he was just ruminating, wasting time as their little group camped on the edge of the one of the many streams found in the Riverlands. They were far from the recognised trails and roads in an attempt to better hide their little camp from patrolling Westerlander's. It was a little past dawn now and they would soon be on the move again.

Somewhere up the road (as it had been for days now) was Riverrun, the fortress home of the Tully's.

Jon wasn't looking forward to arriving at the ancestral seat of the Lords of the Riverlands for a number of reasons. Primarily though, there was one main practical reason for this apprehension and one rather illogical reason.

The practical reason?

Somewhere in the region of fifteen to twenty thousand Westerland troops were laying siege to Riverrun at the moment, led primarily by Lord Tywin and Ser Addam Marbrand. Lord Tywin was a renowned strategist, someone who came up with a massive, or small, plans that had larger scale goals, each smaller accomplished goal adding to the larger. If given his way he could turn a small victory into a cascade that would end, as the older man likely always desired, with House Lannister being victorious.

Ser Addam however, was a tactician.

Robb had often confused the two terms during the lessons he had shared with Jon about leading armies. A strategist, like Tywin, set the goals that would lead up to a large goal, which would lead to larger goals until victory was achieved. But Ser Addam was not a strategist – he was a tactician. Where Tywin Lannister set the goals, Ser Addam was the reason why those goals would actually be achieved – the one who decided what actions needed to be taken to reach a set goal.

As Maester Luwin had told them when they were younger – the strategist decides what pattern the dominoes should make when they fall, and the tactician set the dominoes up so that when pushed they would make the desired pattern.

So…

Worst-case scenario had a master strategist, a well-renowned tactician and up to twenty thousand men between them and their goal. If their goal was to reach Riverrun? Then they would have to either go around the siege, which was already far wider than expected due to the patrols, or they would have to find a way to go through the siege lines to Riverrun itself, which was, obviously, locked up as tightly as the Tully's could make it.

And if their goal was to pass by Riverrun in hopes of making their way to The North instead? Well that was just as bad. Either go around or go through the forces.

Normally the only option would be to go around but that would add, potentially, a week or more of travel to their journey. But with Podrick at their side they had a legitimate Westerlands nobleman who could bluff their way past the regular men-at-arms and levies, painting Jon and his father as his escort. House Payne wasn't a large House but they were Lords – Podrick wasn't a knight but his House's standing would mean they might even be able to bluff their way past quite a few lesser knights.

Or it could all go horribly, horribly wrong and they would either all die or be captured.

A rational, logical, fear to be having in this situation in Jon's opinion.

The other fear? Not so much.

Jon had made great strides to grow past his earlier life, his treatment at the hands of Catelyn Tully. The woman who had made sure to teach him what being a Bastard meant – made sure to really educate him on how much people would despise him for what he was. But the woman had been correct, even if she hadn't lived long enough to really affect the rest of Jon's life. The South especially, they saw him as a threat not only for his skills and actions but because of the nature of his birth.

Which apparently meant he was more inclined towards treachery than legitimate children, supposedly motivated almost entirely by a desire to usurp the position of his legitimate siblings.

But all that aside… he honestly didn't think he would be welcome inside Riverrun. Even if he was a proven commander of men, even if he had saved his father from the clutches of the Mad Boy King… it probably wouldn't matter to the Tully's. He was someone who had caused their kin a great deal of turmoil and resentment. He was someone who, according to the prevailing opinions in the South, would seek to usurp Robb, Bran and Ayra, whom were all half-Tully.

And if they only found this out at the gates to Riverrun? When they were attempting to gain sanctuary within its walls until the Northern host doubtlessly learned of Eddard Stark's survival? After they had burst out of the Lannister siege lines and would doubtlessly have the Lannister's at their backs?

No, if the Tully's tried to leave him from their keep, or even delayed for too long, then the Lannister's would either run them down against the walls of Riverrun or drag them back to the siege lines as hostages.

Logically he knew the Tully's would likely just throw the gates open long enough to admit them because of who his father was. He also knew, logically, that from the top of the walls, they wouldn't know who he was to deny him entry. And, logically, he thought that they might actually, in some strange way, actually approve of him.

Though he had no Tully blood, it was clear to most (he hoped) that he followed their House words almost religiously.

Family. Duty. Honour.

He put his family above all else and had done as much as he could to secure both their position and the safety of each member. Obviously he had failed in some cases… he had failed Sansa.

That wasn't a wound he wanted to pick at right now however. Right now neither Jon nor his father was in any position to properly mourn for Sansa. Poor, gentle Sansa… no. Jon clamped down on the thoughts of his eldest sister, shoving the thoughts and the almost over-whelming emotions deep down inside.

When there was time and opportunity he would mourn her as she deserved to be mourned. But right now he couldn't afford the distraction – he needed to make sure that he and his father would survive the Riverlands. Jon was about to stand up from his resting position against a small rock when he noticed his father, who was cooking a small fish over the fire, shake his head,

"We're not moving yet Jon." He said quietly, "We need to discuss something before we make our next move."

Jon sat back down with a small frown. As more of a tactician himself than a strategist, Jon wasn't sure how much help he would be if his father was still looking to decide what their end goal would actually be at this point. Which he hoped he was because they still had two options and neither of them he could focus on entirely until the other was eliminated as an option. He located Podrick, who was scrubbing at a piece of armour at the edge of the stream, far enough away that he would have to shout to the young man to be heard.

Meaning they were reasonably secure if they were going to be talking about their goals. He liked Podrick and the young man hadn't shown any signs of betraying them… but why trust him with such an important piece of information?

"Podrick!" he called out, getting the young man's attention, "Check on the horses and wait for us there!"

The Westerlander nodded in acknowledgement and set the armour piece down before hurrying to where they had left their horses, a distance to the east of them to avoid being given away by the noise of the horses. And it was useful for just these types of situations.

He looked to his father in deference. They were as alone as they could be right now so it was as good a time as any for his father to let him in on the strategy.

"Do you remember what I told you before you left for Dorne?"

Huh. What a strange topic.

Honestly, there had been a lot of things happening between his 'exile' and now. He could barely really remember it considering all the pressing issues he would rather discuss with his father instead. He could only really think of one thing that had caught his attention at the time. And that had been… no. His father really couldn't be about to talk about that now could he?

They had much more important things to worry about right now!

"I said we would talk about your mother the next time we saw each other."

Jon gritted his teeth,

"If it's all the same to you father, I think we should leave that discussion for another time." He replied curtly, "For example… when we are NOT currently in enemy territory."

Okay so maybe he wasn't showing the proper respect due to his father as either his father or his liege lord. But he really did not want to get into this kind of discussion right now, for the same reason he didn't want to think about Sansa right now. This was going to be an emotional conversation and Jon just… just didn't have the time or the will to deal with that sort of thing right now. There was no reason to be having this discussion now.

Eddard Stark disagreed.

"That is exactly why we will be having this discussion now Jon." He declared, using the serious tone that was usually used when acting in his position as Lord Paramount of The North, "We are currently in danger. The likelihood of one of us living is quite low – let alone the both of us. So we shall have this discussion now, while we can."

Fuck.

Using his own argument for not having the discussion against him. Was his father really pushing this? Yes… yes he was pushing this. Jon rubbed his eyes with his hand, mainly stalling as he tried to think of another way out of having this discussion,

"Well… I don't really see why we need to have a discussion about this." He muttered aloud, "You've told us a few… okay maybe one or two… stories about Lyanna Stark. I know about her. There's nothing to discuss really is there?"

He locked eyes with his father and almost flinched at the hardness to his eyes,

"And your father? What of him?"

Jon growled a little bit as his mind flashed to Rhaegar Targaryen. The silver haired little shite who had stolen away his mother with sweet stories and songs… and then raped her until she was heavy with his child. He didn't blame his mother. He might have hated her too for the damage she had done to their family and to the realm as a whole. But she reminded him too much of a mixture of Arya and Sansa – all of Arya's wildness but with the same wonderful naivety that Sansa had when she was younger as well.

The belief in happy ending especially.

"What of him?" he snapped back at Eddard angrily before taking a deep breath and calming himself before continuing, "What do you want me to say…? That all of a sudden I feel that I'm a Targaryen rather than a Snow?"

There was a tenseness to his father for a moment before it disappeared and a slow smile spread across his face,

"No." he admitted with a shake of his head, "I know you well enough Jon. I know that you wouldn't just change overnight because of a name."

Jon snorted,

"A name I don't even have." He pointed out, "I think, technically, I'm a Sand. As far as I'm concerned there's no difference between being a Sand or a Snow."

A frown replaced the smile on Eddard's face,

"Jon… there may be those who would follow you anyway."

Follow him?

Of course, he knew what his father meant. There were enough Targaryen loyalists out there that even a Targaryen bastard might be seen as more favourable than the Baratheon's. He could be a rallying point for dozens of Houses and thousands of men and he could probably count on the support of The North as well, perhaps the Riverlands and Vale through his siblings' blood ties. The Iron Throne was still strong but for how long? The rule of the last Targaryen's had been unpopular it was true but the Baratheon's, or more specifically the Lannister influence on the Baratheon's, wasn't exactly popular either.

Eddard Stark was pointing out that he could take the Iron Throne and the Seven Kingdoms.

All he would have to do… is stand tall and declare himself a Targaryen.

"Never." He spoke venomously, "To do that… I would have to be seen openly embracing HIS name. To accept that monster as my father in front of the entire realm. No, just no. No to accepting the name of that mad House. And no to accepting that man as my father."

Eddard was looking up at him… why was he looking up at him?

Jon realised he had stood up during his little rant. And rant it had been he realised, feeling more than a little ashamed of himself for having just shouting at the Lord Paramount of The North about his personal problems. Sure, he was family but Jon was a man grown now and the only member of a knightly House. It was his responsibility, duty and obligation to show Eddard Stark the respect that was owed to him.

"But he was your father."

Jon noticed that Eddard had stood as well when he was moving closer to him. He wasn't thinking clearly, his emotions were a mess and he didn't feel like he was the one in control of his body. He watched, like a spectator in his own body, as he punched Eddard Stark across the jaw, grabbing hold of him with his other hand,

"No!" he roared, "That monster is not my father! I refuse! I refuse to accept their madness in my life! I refuse! YOU are my father!"

Things were getting blurry now but Jon didn't care, he just dropped both of his arms to his sides lifelessly.

"You are my father." He repeated, poking Eddard in the chest as the older man tenderly rubbed his chin where Jon had struck him, "You raised me as your own… and when I found out who really… when I found out… I chose you. You are my father! The father that raised me and the father that I chose… and I will forever forswear the man who raped my mother and his House!"

Eddard wasn't angry with him, which Jon was surprised by to be honest. He wouldn't have blamed his father if he had been angry at him – he was acting like an overly emotional young man and had just struck his liege lord. He tried his best to calm himself, to bury his feelings down deep, only to be pulled up short when Eddard Stark pulled him into a fiercely strong embrace,

"You don't know how much I wanted to hear you say that Jon." His voice was as thick with emotion as Jon's was, "You are my nephew… but I am proud to say that you are my son Jon. I will be your father."

Jon pulled himself away, taking a staggering step back,

"How can you say that you're proud of me though?" he shot back quickly, "I… I failed! I failed our family. Sansa… she… oh gods… oh gods Sansa…"

It was beginning to sink in now.

He couldn't push the emotions back down and deal with them later – the floodgates were open and he wasn't capable of putting the feelings back inside now. His breath was coming in rapid bursts as he felt his failure pressing down on his chest. Jon staggered backwards more at the stinging in his cheek, taking a second to realise that his father had struck him across the cheek.

At least they were even now.

Jon didn't resist as Eddard took hold of him by both shoulders and shook him briefly,

"Look at me now son!" he demanded, gaining every ounce of Jon's attention as he commanded it, "You are not responsible. You are not guilty. You are not at fault."

Jon opened his mouth to reply but stopped when his father shook him again. As he watched, Jon realised with growing apprehension that he had never seen his father with such a wild look in his eyes. It was… honestly, it was what he imagined he might look like when he was bearing down on someone in the heat of battle.

Or, he imagined, how he had looked when explaining his plan for the Greyjoy's.

He felt his father's grip on his shoulders tightening to uncomfortable levels but he didn't dare look away from his father's blazing eyes,

"Jon listen to me… it was the Lannister's. Joffrey… is a bastard of incest. Jon Arryn found out the truth and was killed for it. I found out the truth and they imprisoned me and killed Sansa!" he shook Jon again but Jon had squared his footing and barely moved, "The Lannister's! They are responsible! They are guilty!"

Yes.

Yes it wasn't him, it wasn't his fault. He hadn't killed Sansa, all he had tried to do was save her. The Spider had done his best to save her on his request but had been too late. His father had learnt the truth and that had been his only crime. Jon wasn't responsible, Eddard wasn't responsible and neither was Varys.

They had all tried to do what was right and had been too late.

The Lannister's! They and their disgusting progeny were the one's responsible. And to make matters worse, they were tearing apart the Riverlands for making moves to assist Robb in demanding his father and sister back – an honourable request with force of arms ready should negotiations break down. Unacceptable. They were a blight on the Seven Kingdoms and they were enemies of the Starks. Enemies of his family and the greatest threat the Starks had ever faced since the wars against the Red Kings of the Bolton line.

"They are enemies of House Stark." Jon rumbled, his earlier despair being weaved into a stronger anger and hatred for those of House Lannister, "They killed her… they killed Sansa! And all because their incest has sat a sadist on the throne of the Seven Kingdoms…"

His father's fingers dug into his shoulders,

"Jon."

There was that look in his eyes, rising in intensity now.

"Father?"

He held his breath as his father spoke,

"Will you help me? Will you stand by my side and help me eradicate House Lannister?"

Dear gods above. They really had done it! Eddard Stark had been a forgiving man until the Lannister's and their incestuous bastard had killed Sansa.

But he couldn't blame his father for his anger, for his hatred. Jon had felt these feelings before, when he had marched against the Greyjoy's. He had thought that there might have been something wrong with him – to feel such writhing hatred and fury inside him. But looking now at his father, looking at how his peaceful father had been destroyed and made anew by the death of his eldest daughter… he knew that this wasn't something that was wrong. It wasn't something that he had gotten from his 'father'. This fury was something that was inside all men, no matter how honourable and just. This was something that men tried to forget, tried to hide behind their honour and their justice.

And it lit a fire in the eyes of Eddard Stark now.

If he didn't know any better, he would have sworn that he was looking into the eyes of Theon Stark, the Hungry Wolf. There was only one thing Jon could say to his father and he meant every word,

"To the last man. I swear it by the Old Gods."

Eddard Stark released him, maintaining eye contact for a moment longer before nodding and turning away. Feeling like he had passed some test in the eyes of his enraged father, Jon stood to his father's side as the older man began to make marks in the ground with the tip of his dagger,

"We have our final goal – the decimation of House Lannister." he declared as he drew more lines in the dirt until Jon could recognise the crude drawing of the Riverlands for what it was, "Now we plan it out. We plot every step twice over before we make a move Jon – we will destroy them but we will not let out anger blind us. It will give us an edge in combat but war is not about combat."

Jon raised an eyebrow at that,

"What is war about if not combat?"

Eddard looked at him for a moment before nodding in understanding,

"My father told me that Jon. And I too questioned it… of course this was before I fostered with Jon Arryn. Before I really understood the truth of his words." He looked like he was remembering the day for a moment before he continued, "War isn't about combat – war is about fear. Tywin Lannister understands this, it's why he eliminated the Reyne's and the Tarbeck's, so that others would be too afraid to face him, for fear of what he would do should they fail."

Something clicked in his mind as he recalled his mental comparison between his father and Theon Stark,

"It's why Theon Stark took the heads of Andals and spiked them across the coast."

A ghost of a smile from his father before it was gone.

"Exactly. The Andals feared the retaliation of Theon Stark more than they wanted to destroy our faith." He agreed, "But we have no Hungry Wolf, Jon. Right now the realm knows that the Starks are honourable and just… and we are. Robb, Ayra, Bran… they must remain like that. For when we have peace again, for when the Starks of Winterfell need to aid our people through the winter we all know is coming."

He wasn't included in that and neither was his father. But he already had the beginnings of a reputation. He barred his teeth,

"They call me the Bloody Wolf behind my back, father." He growled, "Let them say it in fear at seeing my face… I will become the Bloody Wolf, give them something to fear."

Eddard gripped his head in one hand and pressed their foreheads together,

"Thank you my son." He whispered intensely, "But you must understand… you must not show any mercy. I know you will want to at times but you must promise me that until our family knows peace… you will be like the Direwolf beside the Kings of Winter. You will be my Direwolf, Jon. You will be the vengeance of The North in my place, I charge you with this. I charge you to be a furious storm of death and carnage upon our sworn enemies, House Lannister. Jon Whitewolf, my son… will you swear this to me?"

Could he do it?

Could he live with being almost permanently in the battle-rage, hunting down the Lannister's like a trained dog?

It was the only thing someone of his station, without levies and men sworn to serve him alone, could offer. To become the symbol of The North's rage. He would be the one that faced off against the Lannister's at the front, tearing into them with fury and cunning. He would protect his family by being the spectre of death that those who wished them harm would fear.

Hells, he was already half way there or more already. Why not just accept it and take those last few steps and become what people already believed he was?

"I swear it father. I will fight them but more… I will be the one they fear, by your command."


	32. Chapter 32

AN – The story has been re-rated to M for mature. As a reviewer has pointed out, some scenes have been of such a nature to make this a necessary step. This chapter continues this trend.

Also, please note that there has been a brief time skip from the last chapter. Rather than write out the weeks' worth of travelling, I have decided to bring the story back into the action immediately. To avoid confusion here are some key points that will be mentioned, but perhaps not thoroughly explained, later;

Kevin Lannister assaulted the Northern forces at Moat Cailin, despite Tyrion Lannister counselling against this.

The northern Lannister host was shattered by Robb's counter attack. Thousands are killed and the two splinters of meaningful amounts of men are separated, with Tyrion's close to being driven into the Westerlands and the other being pursued towards Riverrun.

Jon and Eddard met up with Robb's forces north of Riverrun.

Eddard has continued south with Robb's forces.

Jon has met up with a combined force of the Lords of Winter and local Riverlands forces.

Ayra is leading Mormont forces in pursuit of Tyrion's forces.

Bran is holding Moat Cailin.

Apologies for the cop out. Writer's block hit hard so I had to move past it in order to continue.

Figures of Fear

"You heard about him then?"

What a leading question that was – Jon couldn't think of a single reason to ask such a question other than wanting to feel the momentary thrill of being the one in the know. Then it led to the whole "heard about who?" thing and that was just rather stupid in his own opinion.

"Heard about who Biter?"

Biter? Seriously?

He knew some parents never wanted their children but anyone who called their child Biter had something wrong with them in the head. Or it was a rather unpleasant nickname granted by doing something equally as wrong – he assumed the biting in question wouldn't be pleasant.

"You know who I mean… The Bloody Wolf."

Oh?

So, they were talking about him, eh? Well that was a little bit of an ego stroke he had to admit. When he'd first gotten the name he hadn't thought much of it – it had seemed rather unoriginal to him – but it seemed that people much preferred it to any of his own 'titles'.

"Um… who's that Biter?"

Apparently, he wasn't that famous then.

Good.

He would hate to tear the spotlight away from his father and siblings after all. He was doing some good work as far as he was concerned but his family were out there, leading forces in greater multitudes than he was. And he couldn't call the poor footman stupid for not knowing him either – he looked young. This was likely the first time he had lifted a spear, let alone been marched off to fight the foe.

"Oh, my sweet summer child… you must have heard of him! He's a bloody icon, the key part of that phrase being the blood."

From where Jon was stood it seemed that Biter was enjoying his role as storyteller perhaps a little bit too much.

"He's a Northern Knight… leads a band of knights and killers called the Lords of the North… ringing any bells new kid?"

Bit uncharitable to call the Lords a band of Knights and Killers… most of them weren't even knights. He refused to take exception to the description of him and his friends. Nothing was incorrect after all. They were, some of them, knights and all of them were killers. Justified though they believed those kills were, it didn't change the fact that they had taken lives and would likely take many more before they returned home.

"Wait… he's the one who burned the Squids right?"

Jon resisted the snort of dark amusement at such an understatement.

In one sense, he supposed it was true, he had burned House Greyjoy to the ground with his actions and he would happily do it again too. Of course, it wasn't ever going to be a simple thing to kill off a House like that but they were drafted footmen – probably lumberjacks, miners and farmers back home so he didn't fault them for their lack of a political mind-set.

"Burned the…? Oh come on kid! The Bloody Wolf? He's done more than re-do Castamere! Way I heard it he wrestled Victarion Greyjoy to the death, one on one! Guy I know says he knows someone who saw it… say he tore out the squid's throat with his teeth!"

Jon decided to keep moving, doing whatever he could to avoid the group of footmen at the fire noticing him at all.

"Fuck off Biter! Ain' nobody believing that load of shit. 'Sides… I heard he's got a Direwolf that hunts with him. Fucker's the size of a pony they say, teeth the size 'a daggers!"

They'd heard about Ghost huh?

He glanced to his right, seeing a small flash of white fur that reassured him. Of course, he probably shouldn't be worried, Ghost may have been the runt of the litter but the Direwolves had all grown rather well. They were the size of small horses now that they were fully grown – possessing claws strong enough to rend flesh and a bite tough enough to tear a man's arm clean off even with armour in the way.

And unlike these footmen, Jon knew that wasn't an exaggeration to say that having a Direwolf the size of a small horse was worth at least a dozen trained men.

"Eh… best thing I heard about him? You know he fought with those Dornish cunts against that Targ shit? Heard he got his reward from the Sand Snakes if you catch my meaning."

"Which one?"

"All of em."

There were some impressed mutterings from the group that were getting harder to hear the further away he moved.

Jon, as a man with taste, would admit in the privacy of his mind that he rather liked the sound of that little tall tale. He wasn't a 'maid' as it were – a very grateful daughter of a captured trader back North had seen to that – but he doubted he'd have been able to keep up with even one of Sand Snakes.

Though, now removed from the sense of urgency he'd felt after the battle, Jon would freely admit that he regretted not getting better acquainted with any of the daughters of the Red Viper.

"Bullshit!"

Unfortunately true.

"I heard something now that I think on it… but… I don't know… makes me feel sick to think about it…"

"Speak your piece boy. If you're too gutless to tell a story I might just have to kill you to save our enemies the trouble!"

Ah there he was.

A new person, clearly of higher status than the footmen going by his more encompassing armour, had joined the footmen by the fire.

Jon moved closer to the fire again.

"S-sorry Ser… I heard what he did to the Tickler is all."

Intakes of breath and muttered curses abound at that.

Seemed that his handy work had been getting around… which was kind of the point to be honest.

"They say him and his men found him and his men when he was helping himself to some Riverlands girl… they say he used that Valyrian steel sword of his to cut him from balls to belly button you know? Left his guts and balls hanging off and let the cunt he'd been fucking pour salt on it… Gods, that's not right I tell you!"

There were murmurs of agreement – not that Jon cared.

The man had been both an enemy and a rapist who was actively raping a girl too young to have flowered while forcing the girl's own father to watch. If Jon had any regrets regarding the man's death, it was only that it hadn't lasted longer. Lots of blood vessels near a man's part after all. Admittedly the screams had been haunting.

But the pain well deserved.

"Don't worry boy – his days are numbered. We Lannister men remember our own and we do not forgive!"

Jon smiled.

It was a cruel little thing, full of promise and intent. Fixing it in place for maximum effect, Jon drew Red Rain and strode out of the underbrush, stalking into the camp in his soot-blackened armour with his sword drawn and little else. His face was also covered in soot – making the whites of his eyes and teeth stand out all the more, as if he were a spectre.

One of the footmen, Biter, saw him first and tried to yell out a warning.

An arrow whistled through the pre-dawn light, finding its home in the Lannister footman's throat.

Of course, seeing one of your fellows dying in front of you was a warning all of its own, one that sent the footmen around the fire scrambling for weapons. They all looked the same to him. Except for the one with a bright piece of yellow cloth tried around the top of his helmet.

Oh, and the richer man.

Ser Amory Lorch.

The piggy false knight half turned and saw Jon's terrifying visage but it was too late. Red Rain plunged forwards, stabbing through the man's back, half the sword sticking out the front of him even as Jon threw him to the ground, his sword no doubt causing more damage as it tore it's way free of the man's tumbling bulk.

One of the footmen stabbed at him feebly with his spear.

Jon slapped the weapon aside with the flat of his blade, surging forwards to grab the man by the collar, pulling him bodily onto his blade as he locked gazes with the man and bellowed perhaps the loudest roar he had ever made, punctuated with a head-butt that broke the already dying man's nose and covered some of his soot-caked face in blood. Kicking the man off of his sword, Jon took stock of the situation, noting with a grim sense of satisfaction that the arrows had taken down almost the whole camp, similarly disguised men having burst from the undergrowth around the camp to kill or capture those who remained.

Amory Lorch had a boot on the back of his head, pressing his face in the mud, letting him up every few seconds so that he wouldn't choke and die on the mud.

That was a death too good for a child killer in Jon's mind. And besides, having the man choked to death on mud wouldn't send the same kind of message.

Gendry, his Warhammer bloodied, barked orders and the dozen survivors, minus, Lorch, were lined up on their knees in the middle of the camp. His friend towered over any man here and he made for an even more fearsome sight than Jon did clad in soot-coated armour and the blood of his enemies – hence why Jon had roared.

It didn't help in the fight but it would be remembered by the survivors.

Accepting the canteen of water from one of the younger Frey's in the company, Jon washed his face with the fresh river water, letting the soot wash away so that those he had captured might actually have a hope of recognizing him. Handing his canteen to the young man acting as his squire, Jon forced himself not to thank the lad.

Wouldn't help the image he was going to be presenting.

"Bring the block."

Stabbing Red Rain into the dirt, Jon moved to stand beside Gendry, his friend bowing his head and stepping to one side so that the prisoners had their attention on Jon and Jon alone. Running a hand through his tangled hair, Jon looked each man in the eyes as he looked down the row of desperate looking men.

When he had first met up with some of the Tully and Stark men and made his first 'statement' there had been a lot of defiance on the faces.

Every time he captured a group of Lannister men the number of them showing defiance lessened, replaced at first by caution and now by the desperate fear that he was faced with. Jon forced himself to bathe in their fear and loathing, still trying to force himself to get used to being the monster that the Lannister men saw him as.

"You have invaded the Riverlands. Killed its people. Stolen its valuables." He met the eyes of one of the footmen who had been around the fire, "Raped its daughters."

The man twitched and squirmed on his knees, earning him a sharp bash to the head from one of Jon's men before he was dragged back into a kneeling position.

Jon let the silence stretch, acutely aware that the only words being spoken now were the half-choked curses of Amory Lorch.

A wet thump beside him announced the arrival of the block, a lump of Ironwood brought from the North by House Forrester. Originally, he believed it had been to be used as spare wood for repairing their famous Ironwood shields. Now?

Now it served Jon's purposes just fine.

He pointed to a man at the end of the line and he was dragged by two men, kicking and screaming, to the block. It took those same two men to hold the man down on the block enough for a suitable position to be found. Jon withdrew Red Rain from the dirt, resting its edge against the man's neck as he blubbered and begged and cried for mercy.

"What is your name?"

The answer came after much crying, as was to be expected.

"Tyrek…"

Jon raised his sword from the man's neck,

"Tyrek of the Westerlands, for crimes against the North and the Riverlands, I sentence you to die."

The man made to speak but Jon didn't wait. In a fluid movement, he drew Red Rain up and down in a perfect swing.

Tyrek the Westerman's head left his body, the lips still twitching as if trying to vocalise a plea or some other common last word. Jon kicked the head away, watching the prisoners' first recoil in disgust and then begin cursing him as their friend's head came to rest in front of them, his body dragged away to an already considerable pile of dead Westerlands soldiers.

"SILENCE."

His roar silenced most of them, the swift violence from his men shutting up those who had not listened to his command. Waiting until silence was achieved, Jon scowled darkly at the captured men,

"You cry out 'injustice'. As if that filth of a man deserved his last words." He glared venomously at the other men, "You do not deserve to live. There are far worse fates – consider yourselves lucky that I am merciful."

Of course, he was anything but merciful but there were worse ways to die, as some of the captives would get to witness. He nodded and another was brought to the block. He cut through the curses the man spewed,

"What is your name?"

A kick to the ribs by one of the men cut off his curse,

"Lorn of Lannisport."

Jon twirled Red Rain, blood and mud splattering against the man's face,

"Lorn of Lannisport, for crimes against the North and the Riverlands, I sentence you to die."

The smoky, slightly red, steel of Red Rain flashed in the growing light as another of the prisoners was relieved of his head and the process continued.

"Name?"

"Garth."

A flash of Valyrian steel.

The thud of a head hitting the ground.

"Name?"

"Parvis."

The same flash of steel and thud.

Having killed four of the initial dozen, Jon looked at the remaining eight as the last body was dragged away and piled atop its kin, wood and cloth from the Lannister tents being added on top as the pyre was created around the corpses of the Lannister soldiers. Jon did his best not to let any emotion show as his Frey squire wiped his sword clean with a scrap of cloth.

"Ramsay."

Jon's squire audibly swallowed and hurried to find something else to do when the Bastard of the Dreadfort came sauntering on over, ugly face split by a wide grin. He looked to be loving this. Which, as distasteful as it was, was why Jon had taken the bastard into his fold. Jon would never be able to enjoy torture or maiming's, so he had gotten himself a man who was already both well-versed and willing.

Of course, the fact that the man owed his continued life to Jon was a nice bonus – Robb had captured the man after a failed attempt to abduct an elderly Lady in the North. He had been brought south to answer for his crimes before the assembled Lords and Eddard Stark himself… and Jon had suggested his punishment would be giving his life for Jon.

The man was a slave in all but name and yet he looked so damn happy to be here.

He supposed someone had to be.

"Aye Ser Jon?"

Jon made sure to lock gazes with his captives one more time,

"Ready the stake." He ordered bluntly, "And make sure to make it slow. I don't want Lorch to die for hours."

Ramsay Snow's smile made Jon sick to think of but right now he dare not show even the slightest hint of disgust as 'his man' went to work with the sharpened stake. Jon didn't turn away from the captives, who could see what was going on behind him. He'd seen it a few times now and had absolutely no desire to see it again.

He kept looking forwards as Lorch's armour was stripped of him.

He studiously refused to move from his mask of indifference even as the screaming started, as sickening sounds of blood and other bodily fluids hitting the ground rang out.

He refused to acknowledge the terrible smell as the knight defecated.

He saw that one of the captives was looking away, the man supposed to force him to watch looking away himself. Jon swallowed thickly and marched forwards. He pulled the man's helmet off, grabbing him by the hair as he turned, forcing both the captive Lannister soldier and himself to actually look at what had been done on his orders.

Ser Amory Lorch had been stripped naked and impaled upon a wooden stake, which entered through his lower back and exited his gut in much the same way, albeit larger, than Jon's sword had before.

The false knight was still screaming.

Jon leaned in to the whimpering young footman's ear to be heard above the screams,

"You and your friends don't belong here." He hissed into the man's ear, tugging at his hair to get all of his attention, "The Riverlands will no longer be sullied by your presence. It will not suffer your horrors anymore!"

Kicking the man in the back so that he fell on his face, Jon strode back to where he had stood before, glaring down the line at his captives,

"You will remember what you have seen here today. You will TELL of what you have seen here today!" he commanded of them, "You will have this story and you will bear your own weight of proof! None shall doubt your story."

Ramsay gleefully came back to his side, a red-hot brand in hand. Jon glanced at the glowing red Direwolf before nodding. He forced himself to watch as Ramsay, laughing as he did so, branded the first man. The brand was placed on the man's face, ruining one of his eyes in a blinding, searing, pain and marking him at the same time.

They would be ruined as soldiers, of greatly reduced use to the Lannister's to be sure, and they wouldn't be able to hide their message.

Jon didn't watch past the second branding, sheathing his sword and stalking off. The screams of the prisoners and of Ser Lorch followed him and Jon allowed himself a shudder as he reached the edge of the Lannister camp. Feeling his stomach beginning to rebel, Jon rested a hand against a nearby tree and bent at the waist, sucking in deep breaths as he fought to regain control of his mutinous guts.

"I don't know how you can stand to watch any of it."

Gendry.

His friend stood beside him, his face clean of the soot as well as his hand rested atop his Warhammer and his eyes scanned the forest for threats. Protecting him while he did his best to force himself to accept what he had ordered and what he had done,

"I hate it." He admitted to his friend, "I hate every fucking second of it. I'm no stranger to brutality Gendry – any kill is a kill in combat. But this isn't combat. This is torture and I just wish that I didn't have to be part of it."

His friend shifted,

"Then, why are you?"

Jon closed his eyes, breathing slowly as he did,

"Because someone has to." He muttered, perhaps a tad bitterly, "Because our enemy has monsters in their employ – people like Lorch, like Hoat and the Mountain. Our soldiers fear these men above all others, willing to retreat rather than hold simply due to their presence on the battlefield. Our men tell horror stories of the Mountain and men like him… we need the Lannister men to know the same fear."

Silence for a moment.

"And why does it have to be you?"

Why did it have to be him?

Good question really. His father wouldn't have demanded this of him, even though they both realised that in war you needed figures of awe, figures of respect and figures of fear. If Robb and father could be the figures of respect and awe, they needed only the figures of fear. Ramsay Snow was doing a marvellous job of course, some of the Lannister men they'd questioned even saying they feared him the most.

But a torturer wasn't enough.

"It needed to be someone who could win battles and defeat masterful fighters as well." He reasoned, "No one will ever fear Ramsay Snow on the battlefield if, for example, Addam Marbrand faces him in the field. He's a torturer – not a feared warrior. I am a feared warrior and with such a disgusting man under my command I fill the role. I am a figure of fear."

He paused before adding,

"Besides, I would never ask this of someone else." He reasoned quietly, "Never ask my friends to assume such a heavy burden."

Gendry patted him on the back and Jon noted the two horses that his friend had procured. Without a word, Jon mounted his own horse and glanced once more at the chaos and vileness he had brought once more. He held onto the reins tightly even as Ramsay encouraged the survivors to run. Ghost, as if sensing his tension, came to stand beside his horse.

Jon indulged himself in a small comfort, scratching Ghost behind one of his large ears,

"You were the last person to join the ambush. What news?"

Gendry, who had just mounted his own horse, shrugged his massive shoulders,

"The Lords of Winter camp not an hour's ride to the north as instructed. Lady Ayra and the Mormont's have begun harassing the retreat of the splinters of the Lannister army, those commanded by the Imp." He reported dryly, "Lords Eddard and Robb pursue the main retreating force and, last I heard, were riding to relieve Riverrun. Lord Brandon remains at Moat Cailin."

Taking a deep breath, Jon let it out slowly.

Not much different to when he had last checked himself but having been setting up the ambush for the last two days, he had been out of touch with the news. He worried a little for Ayra but he didn't doubt that she had learned well from the Mormont's.

She hadn't been present when he and their father had met with Robb's forces just a few leagues south of the Moat after Kevin Lannister's disastrous attempt to seize Moat Cailin from the south had been utterly defeated, the counter attack by Robb shattering the Lannister host in the Northern Riverlands.

Kevin was one less Lannister to worry about at least.

"And the Mountain?"

Gendry smirked,

"Lancel says some of the boys were bringing back intel on his location back to the camp. Shall we hunt the monster Jon?"

Knowing that once the last of the Lannister's butchers was destroyed in as horrific a manner as possible he would be free to stop the torturous deaths, Jon couldn't help but find a small smile gracing his lips.

Hoat was out of reach and Lorch was slowly dying like a stuck pig – the Mountain was the last figure of fear in the Lannister armies that really shook men in their boots on the battlefield and off. Though the stain of his actions would never wash away, Jon looked forward to being able to conduct himself as a knight again once the necessity for this level of brutality died with the Mountain.

"Aye. Let's bring down the Mountain."


	33. Chapter 33

**AN - This chapter is the last 'positioning' chapter before the confrontation that you've been waiting for. To make it as good as it should be, the next chapter will take longer than this one.**

My Sweetest Friend

What the Hells was he doing?

Jon raised a hand to wave to the men as they gave a cheer at his arrival. It was a familiar action to him by now, riding into the camp at Oldstones and greeting his men. Odd to think that they were his men considering they were a mixture of his Knights, the Blackfish's men and Bolton men. But it was the truth, wasn't it?

They bowed their heads to him, a Bastard, and they followed him into battle without hesitation.

Some of them, he knew, would follow him into the Seven Hells themselves if he asked them to. And that was something of a weight on his shoulders to be honest – the sheer loyalty and faith these men put on him was a pressure, a burden to shoulder.

Sometimes it was easier said than done.

Caked in mud and blood as he was right now, Jon couldn't help the shudder that ran through him as the men drank in the sight of him and cheered. Like seeing something nightmarish wearing their commander's skin was something to take joy in.

Maybe it was.

Dismounting, he patted his young squire on the back in thanks as he untied his sword belt and began the long trudge to his tent, pitched close to the centre of the old city. Or castle. Or whatever the fuck Oldstones had been before it was Oldstones. The history of the Riverlands had never been his focus and has never been something that he desired to learn.

All he cared was that it provided some extra protection for his camp and it was close enough to the main roads that he could move quickly if needs be.

And right now, all he gave the slightest fuck about was that it was where his bedroll and water were so he could peel away this muck and feel semi-human again before he tried to get some sleep before his next attempt to defy the Stranger.

He noticed his squire making to accompany him and he just waved the boy off with a slight growl and a dismissive wave.

Jon didn't miss how the boy cowered.

Ghost trotted alongside him, licking at his fingers. Jon pulled his hand away, not really liking how his wolf was equally likely to be enjoying the taste of blood on his hands as it was trying to comfort him. He clicked his tongue and Ghost moved into his tent obediently, doubtlessly to curl up by the tiny little fire he could have in his tent.

Jon was almost to the entrance of his tent when he was interrupted,

"Ser Jon!"

He didn't know whether he wanted to weep or roar. Taking a deep breath instead, he turned to face the messenger, one of the smallfolk boys who had joined the Lords of Winter to try and make something of himself.

What was his name again?

Angie? No, he was killed by the Wolf's Den during that small prisoner uprising a few years back.

James? No… no James was a proper ginger.

Simon? Nah, that kid had taken a wildling arrow to the eye near Last Hearth. Good blacksmith now he heard.

Ollie? Yeah… yeah it must be Ollie. But when had Ollie gotten so big? He allowed a small smile to grow as he looked at the young smallfolk boy, standing tall and proud as he could. Jon patted him on the arm,

"Ollie." He greeted the young man quietly, "You've grown. Still a good shot with that bow of yours?"

The boy blinked, confused for a moment, before he seemed to inflate with youthful pride. Jon almost chuckled at how far he'd puffed out his chest,

"Aye Ser Jon." He answered brightly, a slightly mischievous glint in his eyes, "Best shot in present company at least. Have you managed to gain enough skill to hit the broad side of a barn yet Ser?"

Jon barked a laugh.

That kind of japing was something that he was certain that no southern knight would accept but the Lords of Winter would. Besides – everyone knew that Jon was only a small step up from awful when it came to the bow. He reached out and ruffled the young lad's hair, ignoring how he fussed about the mess,

"You're a gobby little shite." He observed before sighing a little bit, strapping his sword belt back in place, "Alright then… what's the message little arrow?"

Ollie scowled at the nickname.

To be fair, he'd been too old for the nickname when Jon had been exiled so he was definitely too old for it now. But he didn't correct him. Seemingly remembering his message, Ollie took out a scrap of paper and squinted at it for a moment.

Jon waited patiently.

The boy had come to them not knowing much more than 'stick them with the pointy end' and his own name. Probably Sam's influence that had the boy attempting to read.

"Sam's asking for you to meet with the captains." He announced at length, "At the… the… Sepulcher?"

Jon smirked a little bit, patting Ollie on the arm again for his effort with an admittedly rather troublesome word to learn,

"Good pronunciation." He noted before taking a deep breath, placing a hand on the pommel of Red Rain as he often did when he was forcing himself onto a path, "I better get going. Rest up Ollie – you might be joining me tomorrow morn."

The excitement on the young boy's face was hard to look at.

What kind of boy looked forward to being part of a battle against the Mountain? The monster was responsible for countless murders, rapes and torturous actions… and Ollie looked excited at the prospect of fighting him! He had been working hard to undermine the fear that his men felt towards the monsters in the employ of the Lannister's but was this what he had to look forward to?

Foolish courage?

He supposed, more than a tad bitterly, that it was better to have the courage of a fool than it was to be a sane coward when you were going to be forced to fight at some point regardless.

Gods, how much of the boy's courage and excitement came from stories about him and his friends? How many times had they told this boy of how he'd burnt Pyke to the ground with a handful of men? Or how Domeric had managed to defeat an entire Wildling raiding party with a skinning knife alone? How many men Gendry had sent sprawling to the ground, wheezing, bloodied messes of men? Of Golden Lancel's charge against the Barrow Bandit Lord and his cavalry?

As he looked at Ollie, grin still present as he rushed off, Jon wondered just how many young men he had inspired to such reckless joy and courage.

And why did he feel like it was a bad thing?

He did his best to ignore the feelings as he marched to the Sepulcher, being allowed to approach by the guards only when they noticed his mostly clean face and signature hilt by his waist. Approaching the raised tomb, Jon noticed that he was the last to arrive.

Gendry and Samwell stood to the left, Gendry just as bloodied and muddied as himself and Sam looking like he had been busy operating before the meeting had been called. His usually reserved friend had bandages tightly wrapped from his fingers to his elbows, every inch of them dark with blood.

Apparently, the bandages were better than letting stray cloth into the wounds like Maester's robes did. Or so his learned friend said.

Beside them stood Domeric, his chainmail clean and presentable. Domeric had distance himself to Jon's activities on the field as of late and Jon couldn't find it in himself to blame his friend. They had stood together through many battles but Domeric had made no secret of his distaste for the kind of deeds that Jon was now doing in the name of their homeland. Still, they exchanged a nod of greeting even as Domeric's second, a man nicknamed Steelshanks, sketched a brief bow to him.

Jon nodded to the captain of the Bolton men.

The other side of the tomb, the Blackfish, Brynden Tully, stares blankly at him with a hand resting upon the pommel of his own sword. Jon had heard good things about the Blackfish and many of the stories had been true. Of course, they were never going to get a chance to be anything more than allies though – Brynden Tully still remembered keenly how Lady Stark had hated him and had assumed there was a reason.

He didn't care to argue with the old knight that being born had been enough of an insult for Lady Stark to hate him.

And then there was Lancel.

His friend looked like he hadn't been getting a lot of sleep if the dark rings under his eyes were any indication. Though who was Jon to judge a man of sleeping so little? Somehow Lancel still managed to look regal, standing tall and straight despite his obvious fatigue. His castle-forged plate armour looked to be near enough brand new as well – an obvious difference to Jon's own mail and plate ensemble that looked like it had been dragged through the mud.

Of course, it might have been at one point to make sure he was well and truly covered.

Stepping to the Sepulcher, Jon placed his sword hand, his right hand, flat upon the stone. Upon his move the others did the same, each putting their dominant hand on the stone. While they were not truly within a castle none of them would relinquish their weapons but they all knew that when commanders and captains debated things tended to get rather heated.

If one lifted their hand from the stone, the others would all assume they meant violence and reach for their own weapons. No one wanted things to escalate to violence here so the peace was kept.

"Glad you could finally join us Whitewolf."

The Blackfish – ever so standoffish when they met in such a setting.

"I came when called." He responded simply, "What news from the front gentlemen?"

There was a shared glance around the tomb before Steelshanks metaphorically stepped forward to speak first,

"The scouts have been tracking the Mountain and his men." He reported bluntly, as was his manner, "They number only four hundred but all are mounted. Some are 'knights' and others merely mounted men."

Lancel spoke,

"How many lances?"

A shake of the head,

"Not many milord. Perhaps a dozen or two – most of the men seem to be handling greatswords and axes."

That fitted with what they knew of the Mountain's Men at least. They may all be mounted but that didn't mean that they would fight like typical Lannister cavalry, with their long lances. It was characteristic of the tasks they were given but their weapons were much better suited to cleaving through armour.

Particularly the weaker hind armour of fleeing enemy troops.

"Activities?"

Here Steelshanks hesitated for a moment before answering,

"He's 'entertaining' himself and his men with some small village a ways away." He reported reluctantly, "As you can imagine I don't reckon there'll be a village when he's done with them there."

The Blackfish spat on the ground and his sentiment was echoed around the tomb, even if the action wasn't.

As much as Jon was willing to become something of a monster to strike fear into the hearts of the Lannister forces, he wasn't ever going to harm women or children. His men didn't destroy villages or take what they needed – they paid fair coin for their ale, bread and whores. Some thought this meant his efforts were half-hearted.

He invited them to impale a man still living and call it half-hearted.

"I suggest we take five hundred men with us when we ambush his forces."

Gendry was the one to object, despite Jon's belief that it would be the Blackfish who took exception to the beginnings of his plan,

"That will leave us with only four hundred or so fighting men here." He observed dryly, "And with Lancel's recent bounty we will be outnumbered by our prisoners."

Ah yes.

Lancel had managed to capture some Lannister forces and had brought them back. He recalled hearing that and idly remembered seeing a lot of red armour tossed on the ground, doubtlessly having been stripped from the captives.

They hardly needed armour in their current state – the war was over for them after all.

"How many prisoners do we have now?"

Sam fielded the question,

"Between six and five hundred." He answered simply, "Without further treatment of wounds however, I fear we shall dip beneath the five hundred mark before long. When is the next prisoner convey departing for Moat Cailin?"

Lancel spoke.

"Two days' time." He answered with a frown, "Two of the carts had their wheels broken in the night. I'm not sure what to make of it – bandits are unlikely, as are Lannister men."

Perplexing.

He could tell by the look the Blackfish gave him that the old Knight had thoughts about who might have delayed the transfer of the prisoners but Jon didn't buy it. Lancel? Never. The man had taken a hard stance against the actions of his family.

Even after his father's unfortunate death from dashing his forces against the walls of the Moat, dying still believing that Lancel was a hostage of the North.

Jon met the Blackfish's gaze stubbornly,

"The men at this meeting are above suspicion Ser Brynden." He reminded the old knight before he could speak before looking to move the meeting along, "And the Northern hosts? What word?"

Domeric laid a few scraps of paper atop the stone,

"A few minor reports. Lords Eddard and Robb are making good time to Riverrun." He checked another page, "And Maege Mormont continues her pursuit of the Imp's forces. Lady Arya is still travelling with them."

Both Jon and the Blackfish showed vocal annoyance at this report. The Blackfish because of the southern belief that ladies should be ladies and Jon? Jon because he didn't like the idea of his sister, of four and ten namesday's, being part of a fighting force. Hells, he had a hard-enough time accepting Bran sitting at Moat Cailin at a mere three and ten, and his youngest brother was protected by strong walls and thousands of men, both green and seasoned.

Arya? Out there accompanying a band of men dedicated to hunting down a dangerous enemy? That he didn't like one bit. He liked even less that reports were vague on how strong the combined Mormont and Mallister forces were. For all he knew, his little sister could be squiring for Maege Mormont against a force twice their size.

His hand twitched as the desire to grip his pommel ran strong for a moment before the feeling passed.

"Do you need anything other than men to take down the Mountain and his band of scum, Ser Jon?" Asked the Blackfish with narrowed gaze, "I want that monster gone from my family's lands. I want him dead for the damage he has done and I won't accept any excuses for him living to see another day once our men are committed to the action."

A mumbling of shared sentiment followed the older Knight's declaration. Jon could sympathise since he didn't want the world to be sullied by the man's presence for any longer than absolutely necessary. He nodded to Gendry and then to Domeric and the Blackfish himself,

"You three will accompany me." He declared bluntly, "Blackfish, no man knows the territories better than you and I would have our advance be a surprise until the very last moment. Domeric, I will need you to lead the battle on a larger scale. Gendry… I will take you with me when I confront the ogre himself."

Looks were shared around the tomb before Gendry slapped his free hand to his chest, the armour there rattling from the force of the salute,

"I'd be there beside you even if you forbade me." He declared defiantly, "I'll stand beside you against the Mountain."

Domeric and the Blackfish both just nodded to him and, seemingly as one, they all took a step back from the edge of the tomb. The meeting over, Domeric left, muttering to Steelshanks as he did so. By the time he glanced his way the Blackfish was already gone and Sam was being called away by a Silent Sister.

Lancel just looked at him for a long moment, while Gendry just stood off to the side slightly, waiting for one of them. In the end, Lancel broke the silence,

"You don't want me to come with you."

It wasn't a question because they both knew it to be true.

"No." Jon agreed quietly, "I have already asked much of you my friend. You have stood by your vows to defend the North from all threats, even in the face of your own countrymen. I would minimise your exposure to such fights Lancel…"

His blonde friend's face softened for a moment before he nodded, becoming serious once again and clasping his hand to his chest in a salute that Jon returned. Jon watched as Lancel left the tomb, leaving him alone with Gendry.

"I don't think he resents you Jon."

Jon snorted softly,

"Really?" he asked, turning to face Gendry, "I wouldn't blame him if he did. Though we are friends, near brothers, his loyalty to me has pit him against his countrymen. Hells! His own father died against our forces, pushing himself and his men further than they could go out of the belief that we would use Lancel as a hostage the moment things turned to shite!"

He didn't like to think about what he would have done had the North's fortunes faltered and he had been asked to do just that to his friend. Jon liked to think that he wasn't so blinkered as to forsake his friend and become his jailor so easily. But if it was true, if he was being completely honest with himself, then why would he not like to think on it?

Simple – Jon knew that he would have turned on his friend in an instant if it would have saved a member of his family.

"It's not just that, is it?"

Gendry might not be the smartest man in Westeros but he did not lack perception. Running a hand through his tattered and dirtied hair, Jon leaned against one of the remaining walls around the tomb, not wanting to look at either his annoyingly perceptive friend or the cold stone reminder that death awaited them all.

It wasn't all that was worrying him, no.

"Arya is out there Gendry." He muttered, though he noticed by the way his friend's shoulder sagged a little that he had been heard and understood, "My little sister – my only little sister now – is out there on the battlefield. I knew father meant for her to be trained when she was to be a ward of the Mormont's but God's blood! What in the Hells is Maege thinking, taking her as a squire to war with her? Against the Lannister's – the most blood thirsty cunts this side of the fucking Wall?!"

He palmed the pommel of his sword.

"You knew she wouldn't ever have accepted staying in the North." Gendry argued as he rested his huge frame against the tomb, half-sitting on the stone Sepulcher, "She's too wild. She would have gone mad within a week and likely would have pushed too hard with the administration or some such shit. Starved people to get us replacement shields early and the like."

Jon wanted to defend his sister from Gendry's comments but he couldn't really. They weren't mean spirited and, what's more, they were right. Arya had a temper and a wildness that meant she would have raged against being 'confined' in the North. And the girl's numbers had been terrible at the best of times and they needed an economically stable North to return to.

Especially since there were more mumblings about independence from the rank and file and some of the Lordling's he had spoken to as well.

"Still… you've heard the rumours." He fixed Gendry's blue eyes with his grey ones, "They say her and her wolf fight on the front lines with Lady Maege… with Dacey."

Dacey Mormont's name was said with bitterness.

Jon blamed the young warrior woman for enabling his youngest sister, for making her think that the battlefield was any fit place for a lady. Hells! The battlefield wasn't a fit place for man nor beast either! Even the most 'tame' battlefields he had ever stood upon had been blood-soaked hellscapes with enough viscera to make Roose Bolton fucking paler.

His grip tightened on the pommel.

"They're probably just that – rumours." Gendry cautioned with a frown that Jon knew meant he likely didn't believe them either, "Your lord father demanded an answer from Lady Mormont herself and you got a copy of that message yourself. She says that Lady Arya hasn't been on the front lines with her."

Jon growled his annoyance,

"Curious wording isn't it though?" he countered darkly, "With her. The message does not state that Arya has not been fighting on the front lines though – just not with Lady Maege. The nerve! After all of the loyalty they have shown House Stark over the years, they use one of our own as a soldier! Arya was to be treated as an honoured guest, as befitting her status, not dragged alone to war like this! She's four and ten for Gods' sakes Gendry! She should be worried about pretty boys and shite like that – not how best to dismember an enemy!"

The silence was kept for a long moment,

"We were not much older Jon." His tall friend counselled in a much more subdued tone than before, "What were you when you fought Ironborn? When you were knighted? What… five and ten? There's not that much difference."

Jon couldn't help the bitter laugh.

What an argument to use! Because he had been of a similar age when he first killed, that made it alright did it? If you ignored all the differences between a man and a woman, put all the social reasons behind… it was still a horrible idea in Jon's mind,

"And look how I turned out."

Gendry took a step closer,

"Jon, you're a well-respected Knight Commander of a Knightly Order – a warrior of renown and almost of legend!"

Jon stepped away from the wall,

"I am a murderer!" he thundered back, stunning his taller friend with his sudden volume, which he reigned in only to avoid their conversation being the talk of the camp by midnight, "I have killed more men than I can count, cutting down lives left and right… I don't regret it Gendry, they were enemies of my land and my family. But don't ever think I would wish this kind of life onto one of my siblings! Do you remember what it was like when we first began? The killing? The smell that clung to your nose and robbed you of appetite for hours! The screams… how the phantom screams robbed us of sleep until, one day, we killed again… and nothing happened. We numbed ourselves to the death and the disgust, Gendry! A part of ourselves died with every life we took and I would have my sister and my brother retain that part of themselves for as long as possible – is that so wrong of me?"

His friend had let him rant – Gendry was good at that. The taller warrior stood and he listened when people really needed to vent and Jon found himself grateful for such a companion right now. Gods knew he needed it. He pushed it down during the day, when he was with others, but when he was with his friends he allowed his emotions to come out. Before it had been to drop the serious mask and laugh with them.

Now? Well, now all he felt all that often was impotent rage and mounting sadness.

"You're talking about her innocence – the kind a child has."

Perceptive.

"Yes." He answered honestly, "I want my little sister to stay the little girl who used to climb the walls of Winterfell with Bran, racing to see who could get to the top first. To experience things like a girl of her station should – even if she'd likely probably punch her first crush in the face rather than bat her eyelashes at him. I want that for her."

His friend stepped forwards and placed a hand on Jon's shoulder,

"It's already too late for that Jon." He explained quietly, "Because of that? All those flowery things you wanted her to do? You forget that all of those scenarios involved Lady Sansa, mothering her and what not."

Too damn perceptive.

He hadn't forgotten, despite wanting to. How could he expect Arya to be the same as she was after Sansa had been taken from them in the way she had been? As much as his youngest sister would sometimes lash out at Sansa for 'pretending to be their mother', the family as a whole knew that Arya took Sansa's words to heart more than anyone else's. Despite their seemingly opposing personalities, Arya had always wanted her big sister's approval.

And now she would never get it.

Jon shoulders sagged as the weight of that settled on him. He couldn't deny Arya her quest for vengeance, even though he wanted more than anything to do so. She'd probably just ignore him and do it anyway after all. At his deep sigh, Gendry patted him on the shoulder again,

"Get to your tent." He suggested, "Take off your plates, for the love of the Father wash yourself, and just relax for a time Jon. Let yourself relax for once, you know? I'm not fighting the Mountain with you snoring beside me."

At the last, tired, jape, Jon chuckled obligingly and clasped his knight-brother's forearm tightly,

"Aye, wouldn't want to have to scrape you off the floor." He japed back, their humour typically as dark as it usually was, "Get some rest yourself Gendry."

The taller man snorted in amusement at the comment as he ambled away,

"Fuck that. I'm going to fill my gut with some of those pies around here and find me a nice lass for the night." He waved at Jon over his shoulder, "I'll try to keep the noise down neighbour – don't want to make you jealous."

Jon rolled his eyes, resisting the urge to throw a taunt back as he knew his friend was likely wanting. He'd probably use it as an excuse to get Jon to come with him. He was tempted to lose himself in food, wine and tits but he resisted the urge.

He was too fucking filthy for any of that crap right now anyway.

His own walk away from the Sepulcher was a lot more relaxed than his approach to the stone tomb had been. Jon nodded to a few men he recognised along the way before he finally stepped into his tent, waving a hand to acknowledge the guard as he did so. Eyes adjusting to the darkness, Jon was surprised to see Lancel, now wearing some more casual leathers, sitting atop the chest Jon kept for his worldly possessions aside from his armour,

"If you've come to talk me into trying to relax, Gendry beat you to it." He greeted his friend, already working on pulling his armour off. It was harder without a squire but Jon didn't mind it, he'd learned how to do it this way first after all, "And if you're here in replacement of his offer of tits then I'll remind you that I'm not the Knight of Flowers."

Lancel chuckled a little bit at the jape, playing with Ghost's fur, much to the big wolf's enjoyment it seemed. Honestly, a Direwolf's wagging tail often seemed to be as much of a weapon as the rest of it,

"Thought he would have realised that you don't do whores." He commented lightly with a small smirk that Jon caught even as he pulled his mail coat off, throwing it to the ground so that he was clad now only in a thin jerkin, "No, I'm afraid I've come with one last serious topic before you start snoring down the nearby tents."

Jon rolled his eyes.

One night sharing a tent on the road and Lancel was never going to let him, or anyone else, forget that he snored. Lancel had japed that it sounded like a pride of mountain lions roaring every time he took breath in his sleep.

Jon still maintained that his friend was just an absurdly light sleeper.

"I'll ignore that remark…" he told his friend with a slight glare as he worked on his greaves, "And instead ask what topic counts as serious but couldn't be brought up at the meeting of captains."

His friend looked distinctly uncomfortable for a moment before answering,

"I want to take your place against the Mountain."

Whatever Jon had been expecting, it wasn't what he got in the end. He wobbled slightly on one foot as he successfully removed one of his greaves, tossing it to the ground, forgotten, in favour of meeting his friend's serious gaze,

"You'll have to explain that to me Lancel." He told his friend bluntly, "I distinctly remember not a few moments ago, telling you that I don't like pushing you to fight your countrymen. Now here you are asking me to go and fight them."

Lancel resumed his ministrations on Ghost's fur, which got him a huff of approval from the relaxing Direwolf,

"I resent the idea of that monster being identified as my countryman." He japed lightly before growing serious again, "But honestly? I don't think you'd win."

Ghost growled, his hackles rising slightly as he fixed Lancel with a steely glare that only simmered down when Jon barked wordlessly at his furred companion to be silent,

"You're a fantastic knight Lancel." He noted as it was not in question, "But we're at least as good as one another and I have personal reasons for wanting that monster to die. You're suggesting I give you my chance at vengeance, or revenge if you want to think of it that way, because… why?"

To his credit, Lancel didn't cower before his own anger or the anger of his wolf,

"You might not notice it but we do Jon – you're tired." He gestured to Jon's face, "You've been running yourself ragged and, as your friend, I know you've not been getting much sleep even when you finally do try and get some. In peek condition Jon? I'd back you every day of the week. But you're not at your peek and you know it."

Gods, why the fuck did Lancel have to have logical arguments? Because he was right. Jon had noticed that his reactions seemed dulled recently and he was pretty sure it was because of the lack of sleep.

"You've been keeping me with the camp as much as you can. I've been doing nothing but resting and training. I'm at my peek." He paused for a moment, watching as Jon removed the last greave and stood only in the jerkin and underclothes, sword belt clutched tightly in his hands. Lancel met Jon's eyes as he held out a hand to him, "Let me take Red Rain. You said it yourself, we're near enough a match and I'm fresh where you're not. Let me take up your blade and slay Gregor Clegane. Let me claim your vengeance in your name."

He wanted to punch Lancel for even suggesting it.

The very idea of someone else being the one to finally kill that giant piece of shite actually made him want to beat the idea out of his friend's head. One of his closest friends and he wanted to break him for merely suggesting the idea of him taking vengeance against the man who had… who had… Gods, Sansa.

Jon grit his teeth hard enough for it to start to hurt.

God, damn it.

Did he dare risk this? He was tired, he was worn and he knew well enough that he wasn't in the best condition to go into such an emotional and physical fight. It had been why he had asked Gendry to assist him in the battle even – if he was as well as he could be he wouldn't have dared asked for the help of his friend, he would have taken the Mountain on alone.

He stiffened when Lancel stood and placed a hand on the sword belt, his other hand coming to rest against the pommel of Red Rain instinctively.

"Let me do this for you Jon." Lancel urged quietly, "I remember the sweet girl that Sansa was and I will strike true – I swear it."

As conflicted as he was, Jon knew there was a simple choice ahead of him. It was as simple as it could be to be honest. He could either take his sword back from Lancel's grip or he could let it go. And both options had virtues that he couldn't deny.

He squeezed the pommel in his palm.


	34. Chapter 34a

**Note:** **At the end.**

Brother

Jon had decided to take Lancel's suggestion in the end.

He was tired and he was getting sloppier in battle and command now that Sam's supply of Dreamwine had run dry from their extended time in the field. Lancel was the better choice and that had made sense to Jon.

For the first time in a week at least, Jon actually rested and got himself some fairly good sleep before he was awoken rather abruptly.

Ghost didn't often howl and when he did, it always signalled something foul afoot.

Jon did his best to move even as he was only just opening his eyes, suddenly being awake meaning his senses were now finally able to communicate to his mind just what was happening. There was screaming and the unmistakable sound of steel clashing against steel, all drowned out by his Direwolf's roar and a man's startled scream, which quickly turned into a gurgling sound.

What in the name of all the Gods and Hells was going on?!

His eyes adjusted to the dim light of his tent in time to see a man in red armour with his throat being torn out by Ghost, spraying hot blood across both wolf and master as the unmistakably Lannister soldier died before his scream could continue. Two of the man's fellows charged at Ghost with their spears at the ready.

Jon took up his axe from where it rested beside his other belongings, flinging himself across the room with a roar, all grogginess from just waking quickly disappearing as his blood thundered in his ears as the adrenaline sang throughout his entire body. Blocking a stab at his wolf by using his axe to bat the spear aside, Jon reached out with his free hand, grabbing the man by the edge of his armour and pulling hard, sending the man clattering to the ground to his left while Jon's axe rouse from near the ground, cutting through the second spearman's dominant hand at the wrist.

Before the man could get over the shock of losing his hand and weapon, Ghost was upon him, grabbing his leg in his powerful jaws and pulling the man over before pouncing on the now prone man's chest and proceeding to make a meal out of another neck.

Jon spun back to the first man, whose back was to him as he tried to rise.

His axe bit into the man's spine and the man screamed as his lower body suddenly went limp and he crashed to the ground again. Jon didn't wait to hear any last words or to demand any answers from the man, he just cleaved into the back of the man's skull with his axe. After all, it didn't take a genius to realise that the camp was under attack.

How had the fucking Lannister's found their camp?

Or had the prisoners just escaped?

Fuck it, maybe he had needed answers from the guy he'd executed. He didn't have time to regret the decision to kill the man however, his camp was under attack and here he was in a pair of breeches. There wouldn't be time to get his armour on or ask for his squire – the poor boy was probably dead if the attackers had managed to reach his tent near the centre of the camp without his own men chasing them in.

Jon yanked his axe free of the attacker's skull, catching his direwolf looking to him for orders, idly licking blood from its maw even though the beast's snow-white coat was already a deep crimson. He gripped his axe tighter in hand as he decided how best to proceed.

Unknown number of attackers.

Unknown location or direction of attackers.

Unknown status of any allies.

Well that last part settled it for Jon to be fair. He could have likely just run in a direction and made his way away from what may well be a bloodbath but he had friends here – allies gods damn it. Brothers in arms and comrades who trusted and relied upon him.

The deaths of any of them so far would already lie heavy on his heart considering he had been in charge of them; he had been responsible for them and he had failed them. Perhaps he should have put more guards on the prisoners? Perhaps he should have pushed Lancel about killing all of the prisoners rather than keeping them locked in cages, ready to be transported away from the front lines.

And probably ransomed back if they were important enough to the Lannister war effort.

Fuck that.

They were fighting for their lives and their freedom and he could respect that to a certain degree. That level of acceptance stopped when they raised their weapons to his men, to those who had sworn to follow him.

Jon made his decision and strode out the tent with his bloodied axe at the ready, wading out into the chaos of an unprepared camp under attack. Men were fighting in small groups or alone – there wasn't a single bit of discipline anywhere to be seen.

Just a desperate struggle to survive the next few minutes.

Jon didn't announce his presence like the hero's did in the stories Sansa had read as a young girl. He didn't demand the Lannister swordsman currently beating one of his men in a fair fight to 'stand and face him'. No, he simply came up behind the man and swung his axe at neck level, cutting through the weaker armour where the helmet and breastplate met, tearing the man's neck in two and half-dragging him backwards as he drew his weapon from the newly made corpse.

"Where is Gendry?!" he roared to his wounded man over the storm of swords and screaming, "We need to rally and form some kind of defence… where is he?"

Jon wouldn't pretend that he wasn't looking for Gendry first because he was his greatest friend. That was part of the reason but it was, by no means, the only reason. Gendry was almost as feared on the battlefield as he himself was and the man's size and sheer strength meant that he was amazing at holding certain sections of a defensive position, usually one of the flanks.

"H-his tent Ser!"

The tent next to his – simple enough. Jon nodded to the man and turned quickly to make his way to Gendry's tent. He was going to need a Warhammer by his side if he was going to be breaking his way out of this situation.

"Ser! Lannister's entered the tent before your own Ser!"

Jon didn't remember calling Ghost to his side but it didn't matter; his direwolf charged ahead of his increasingly fast steps to burst into the tent with a snarl. Not waiting for his direwolf to take command of any battle situation, Jon barrelled into the tent with axe held high and a snarl almost as fierce as Ghost's on his lips.

Which died quickly.

Gendry was laid on his furs, looking to all the world like he'd collapsed on his front from drinking… until you took in the sight of his back. It became increasingly clear that they had caught Gendry completely off guard as dozens of knife wounds stretched across his back. Jon reached out to his friend, hoping against his better judgement that his huge friend was still, somehow, alive. He turned Gendry slightly, his hand falling away as he caught sight of his friend's face.

Those cowardly fucks… they'd cut out his eyes, likely when the strong man had tried to fight back as best as he could.

Jon's shock and revulsion didn't stay long. Oh he knew they'd probably be back before he could sleep again. He knew he be seeing his friend's mutilated body in the night, taunting him and snatching sleep from his grasp and – likely – his meal from his guts as well. But right now it was being pushed down and down, deep inside of him until all he could feel was the boiling, agonising, fury.

He had felt the bloodlust and battle anger before but this was something of a different beast. This was fire to touch and all he could do was grasp it with both hands and take it to plunge into the hearts of his enemies.

Ghost howled and it took Jon a moment to realise that he was shouting something. It wasn't a word really so much as it was a howl of his own, which fuelled him further as he tore out of the tent, taking in as much as he could within a moment before he was charging forwards with his direwolf, jumping at a surprised Lannister man, taking the two of them to the ground with his weight as Ghost tore bloody murder through the ranks of the man's fellows.

Jon tumbled with the foot soldier, both of them struggling to make sure that they ended up atop the other in this struggle. He lacked the weight advantage but Jon's brief advantage of surprise paid off, leaving the surprisingly young man vulnerable below him.

He probably hadn't even seen fourteen summers and he was probably begging him to spare him… but the blood was a rush in his ears and Jon didn't care about how old the boy was. Jon had dropped his axe in his mad charge but it didn't matter right now since the boy's helmet had come loose as well.

Or maybe the arrogant little shit hadn't been wearing it at all? Jon didn't care.

Jon clasped his hands around the youth's throat but he wasn't going to choke the boy. That wouldn't satisfy him. A bloodless death for the fellow of the gutless scum who dared to strike at his friends? No! His head and his heart were in agreement – they would bleed for this. All of them he could get his hands on.

Jon's thumbs began to dig into the boy's exposed throat. His eyes bugged out as the blunt digits were pushed and pushed until the skin gave and suddenly Jon was pulling the boy's throat open in two directions, blood literally gushing out to cover the two of them as Jon tore the boy's throat out of his neck with his bare hands, throwing the organ away as he roared another wordless declaration into the boy's rapidly darkening eyes.

The boy was dying.

And Jon wasn't nearly done with those who had dared to fucking breathe in the same area as him right now. Prising the boy's dead grip free of the strong wooden shield he had been carrying, Jon staggered to his feet, noticing that Ghost was being penned in by a handful of Lannister men. None of them were brave enough to be the first one to lunge for the trapped wolf, knowing that the wolf would likely tear them apart before their comrades could put it down.

With heavy shield in hand, Jon launching himself at the back of one of the unsuspecting men, grabbing the dagger off the man's belt before raising the shield high. He saw the man's eyes widen inside his helmet before the edge of his shield collapsed the helmet's metal inwards, blood oozing out as the helmet suddenly became impossibly tight. The man's screams were pitiful and muffled.

The shield had broken his helmet into his skull. He might not even die from the blow but it didn't matter to Jon right now – he was likely blind and choking on his own blood so the man wasn't a threat anymore.

And he would be howling in impotent agony for hours to come.

Flowing to the right, into the slightly more aware second man, Jon's stolen dagger found its way into the man's mostly open helmet, tearing into his eye before Jon savagely yanked down on it, cleaving through the eye socket and cheek bones to tear into his tongue and mouth. The man's screams were bloody and wet as he staggered backwards, sword swinging blindly. Jon grunted in pain and annoyance when one of the man's wild swings caught the side of his face.

The pain was hot and wet and seemed to be centred on every part of the right hand side of his face, even though the sword's tip had only raked from his cheek along the side of his skull, mangling his ear and probably breaking his cheek bone too.

Jon's instincts were the only thing that allowed him to bring up the shield in time to deflect a stab at his front from a spear. The pain fuelled the rage as he lunged forwards at his off-balance foe, stumbling slightly as his pain disorientated him for a moment. Luckily that actually caused a sword swing to pass clean over him as he followed through on his lunge as Ghost leapt over his back to barrel his secondary attacker over.

Following through with an attack at head height when you were now on your knees meant that you actually found a softer target.

Jon dropped the shield, grabbing hold of the man's greaves as he stabbed up repeatedly with his dagger, tearing up through the leather sections of the greaves to literally un-man the Lannister soldier, fresh blood cascading down the man's thighs as Jon made certain to tunnel his way upwards with the dagger as much as possible.

A pained yelp drew his attention from the man who had since slumped against his spear, no doubt on his way to death rather quickly. Jon turned his head, his hair getting in the way of his vision for a moment, plastered to his face as it was by the blood of his foes.

He was just in time to watch the second spear disappear into Ghost's body, the first having pinned one of the majestic wolf's legs to the ground to make the killing strike easier. The long shaft of the spear seemed to go on forever as it entered Ghost's neck at the back before bursting out from his chest to pin him to the ground like some kind of demented puppet.

"GHOST!"

Another companion killed.

Another reason to drown himself in the blood of these scum! He tore the spear from the grasp of his latest victim, staggering to his feet with a guttural roar, charging forwards with the spear pointed straight and true, taking the killer of his beloved Ghost directly in the chest, punching through his breastplate to run him through.

Jon's vision seemed to dim for a moment as one of the nearby Lannister man took advantage of how over extended he was to slash down with a sword, breaking the spear in two and actually tearing a blood gouge out of his left forearm in the process. There was a moment where Jon howled in pain and the Lannister men seemed to relax a fraction.

It was enough.

As he had been doing before, Jon acted on instinct, fury, pain and the rush that all of that added up to make, stabbing up at his attacker with the remains of the spear's haft in his right hand, impaling the man's skull from below the chin. He roared in effort, dragging the man's body to the right to block a swing from another sword with the man's skull.

That was definitely the end of him.

Pushing the corpse forward with all that remained of his might, Jon pushed himself forwards, the attacker falling on his back with the body of his comrade pinning him to the ground as Jon's good hand tore the man's helmet from his head… before Jon proceeded to beat the man's skull in with the helmet, first breaking the man's nose, then his teeth, then puncturing one of his eyes, then the other and then the blows became a blur until all Jon could hear was the dull crunch of bone breaking before it became a much squishier sound.

Cradling his wounded left arm to his torso and hunched over his latest victim, Jon was in no position to do anything about the boot that kicked him squarely in his exposed ribs, drawing a pained scream from him as the armoured foot not only broke the skin but did a heck of a job breaking his ribs as well. The second kick was even harder and Jon rolled away from the attack in pain, howling curses as his breath became harder to take as what felt like his entire right chest seemed to cave in.

Both arms now cradling his chest, Jon knelt in the mud, his head touching the ground as he let himself express his pain vocally. Crying out in pain wasn't a sign of weakness after all – only the Gods could talk of taking punishment and remaining stoic. More Lannister men were converging on him now, he knew. Doubtlessly they had recognised him either by sight or by reputation by now, considering the short but bloody path he had carved through them.

He probably should do something about that.

But… he was so heavy and everything was hurting. Seemed to him that everything was actually hurting more than it had a moment ago. The blood wasn't rushing in his ears quite so bad anymore and he was becoming much more aware of how dizzy he felt.

Probably from leaving too much of his blood lying around.

Now that he wasn't pushing himself constantly he was aware of the other wounds he had taken. Smaller cuts, gashes and what would develop into bruises, all along his exposed torso and arms. Sure, the chunk of his arm missing and the mangled remains of his ear and cheek were things that demanded attention but it wasn't like he was without any other injury either.

He was tired.

He just wanted to close his eyes and lay down, even in the mud and even though he knew he probably wasn't going to get any rest when he closed his eyes. Somehow he just knew that rest wasn't going to be something he would be feeling if he closed his eyes.

He'd always scoffed at the Andals and their Hells, all seven of them, but as he knelt there in the mud he couldn't really think of anywhere else he would be going if he closed his eyes and let himself be as tired as he actually knew himself to be.

As he felt the rough hand grab him by the hair and pull, Jon briefly thought about resisting but he couldn't find it in himself right now. Even though he knew that the next thing would be the blade running across his throat…

But it wasn't.

"It didn't have to be this way Jon."

No.

No it couldn't be.

That voice was one he would recognised anywhere – it was a voice he had spent years associating with trust and brotherhood after all. Jon's righteous indignation and fury burned in his gut, momentarily chasing away the pains and the tiredness as he tugged his head free from the hand that had brought him up into a more upright position, glaring hatefully at the man who stood in front of him, gleaming armour tainted with blood and mud as the Lannister men surrounding them jeered and crowed.

"It never had to be this way. But you started us on this path… you brought even greater horrors into this war and expected that it wouldn't escalate. The arrogance!"

Jon had thought he wanted the man who'd killed Ghost dead and he really had. He'd thought he wanted that young kid dead and he definitely had. But right now both of those paled in comparison to just how much he wanted to see the man in front of him dead.

It didn't even matter how.

Preference would be by his own hand but Jon would gladly wait decades just to see this man die, even if it was only so he could see him wither away as an old man and die from his frailties. Didn't matter. Fast or slow… he just wanted him dead.

"This is your fault Jon. I didn't want this. I wanted to end the war but I never wanted this."

Jon's tongue was sluggish as he worked it against his dry lips, wetting them with more blood than was probably healthy too,

"Traitor."

It was a softly spoken curse but it carried across the distance, which was silent for a moment before more jeers and crowing from the Lannister men broke the silence. Lancel stared down into his eyes for a long moment before waving a hand and silencing his men. There was still the sounds of clashing steel and screaming but that was further away and all of Jon's attention was focused on the blonde haired man.

He seemed gaunter than he remembered him being the day before. Bags under his eyes and his hair pulled back and tied with string.

Heh.

He remembered one of the smallfolk teaching Lancel to do that when they saved a caravan from some raiders. Since that day, years ago now, Lancel had always tied his hair back with string when he was going to be fighting. Pulled his face back too… made him look more severe… or maybe that was the blood that splattered his usually pristine armour?

Hard to tell when your entire view of a person you knew was shattered.

"Yes."

At least he didn't deny it.

"I have betrayed you and I have betrayed our order. I brought others into my betrayal and I was the one to plan out this entire attack. The captured men. Some of your more competent guards being 'lost' on scouting missions. Taking Red Rain."

Jon noticed the way that Lancel's hand rested on the pommel of the Valyrian steel sword in question and he wanted to snarl and launch himself at the betrayer but it wouldn't do any good. He wanted nothing more than to draw his sword from that traitor's side and plunge it into his heart over and over again until he'd shredded the pitiful organ entirely.

"And do you know why I decided this course? Why there was no other option for me anymore?"

He didn't want to hear the justifications of a traitor but he was, quite literally, a captive audience here, wasn't he? Didn't look like he'd get a choice.

"Because of you. I followed you for so long because I respected you Jon. You were a knight of the realm who truly put his duty first – you were a fucking paragon to me Jon! I looked up to you!"

Oh.

That was rather unexpected to be honest and Lancel looked genuinely… hurt? Remorseful? Desperate?

What did it even matter?

"You sank further and deeper than almost any false knight in the history of the Seven Kingdoms and I had to watch as you brutalised my people – My duty to you as a friend and as a knight demanded that I do so. I chose differently because you forced me to this point Jon."

Probably even true.

It didn't do a single thing to stop the anger churning in his gut even though the dizziness was getting worse and he was swaying slightly on the spot now. He was… was he dying? Was this what dying felt like?

It felt like he was getting both lighter and heavier somehow. Like his insides were lightening but his body just felt so heavy and his thoughts and emotions were beginning to get harder to hold onto. The anger was still there but it was all he could do to just keep it firmly in hand at this point.

"On my command… they're all dead. Gendry, Sam, Domeric… your Frey friends, the boy Olly, the Mallister cousins... all of them dead at my command. And all of it comes back to you Jon. You are the false knight! You are the one who betrayed me first! Your duty to me as a friend! As a knight commander and as a man who called you brother!"

Jon's eyes were getting heavier but he stilled, stared up at Lancel as the distressed blonde built himself up into a rant.

"Hundreds, dead needlessly by your hand! Countless numbers of atrocities done in your name and all to serve your selfish means and ends! Damned, twisted, treacherous defiler of both men and duty bound bonds – what do you say for yourself? What's say you now Bloody Wolf?!"

Lancel was panting like he'd run a mile and Jon could see the man was weighed down by his own emotions regarding this whole thing. Jon licked his lips again,

"If you need me… to be the picture of Northern savagery and brutality so you can live with yourself and what you've done… so be it."

Lancel reeled back as if struck but Jon wasn't done.

Gathering what little strength he had left, Jon planted his right hand firmly in the mud in front of him and took a few deep breaths, ignoring how even that set his ribs alight with pain, before pushing up with his good arm and his knees. He roared in pain as he pushed his broken body to stand, managing to bring himself up to his full height and brace his feet to keep him from tipping over under his own weight,

"But you're going to have to kill me. With your own hand… kill me!" he barked, phlegm and blood flying from his mouth, "Because if you don't I swear before all the Gods ever made up by man and all those yet to be made up… I will kill you."

He glanced from left to right at the assembled, slightly nervous-looking, Lannister men. How much fear must he have commanded if even now they looked upon him and fought the urge to tremble,

"I will burn down your homes. I will throw your women and children to the dogs as meat! I will stamp out your entire culture! You will be nothing!" he declared, fixing his gaze on Lancel again, "You take me as a hostage and it won't matter how long it takes… I will end you all. So you better be ready to kill me Lancel!"

Jon was certain that the last of his energy was being used in this movement and he didn't care. He refused to be taken hostage – to be used to bully his family into submission. But there was no way he would be taken alive when he was throwing himself at the commander of these Godless fucking traitors with intent to kill.

Somehow.

He was almost to Lancel when he was stopped by a spear, tearing through the flesh of his side to literally gut him, causing his legs to turn to butter beneath him as he was once again brought to his knees. Screaming in fresh agony, Jon used both hands to hold his insides against his stomach. Just like all those men he had gutted himself, Jon obeyed the futile urge to try and stuff his spilled guts back inside.

He gritted his teeth as he heard an unmistakable sound.

Red Rain slipped free of its sheath.

Jon forced himself to look up, bloodstained teeth gritted tight enough to shatter to hold in the need to continue vocalising this horrendous pain. Lancel looked genuinely horrified and Jon couldn't help the bitter grin that seemed to be more than a touch delirious.

"It didn't have to be this way Jon…"

Jon wanted to laugh but he didn't think he physically could. His rather demented grin didn't go anywhere though,

"If you… think that… you never really knew me in the first place… brother."

Lancel straightened, his grip on Red Rain tightening.

Jon leaned back slightly, hissing it pain with every short, sharp, breath.

Red Rain was raised into the air.

Jon closed his eyes.

The unmistakable but warmly remembered sound of the Valyrian steel cutting through the air.

And it was over.

In a flash of his own sword, Ser Jon Whitewolf's bloody legend ended.

 **Note:** **This is one of two chapters that can be considered "Chapter 34". I encourage you to believe whichever you want is "canon".**


	35. Chapter 34b

Note: This is one of two chapters that can be considered "Chapter 34". I encourage you to believe whichever you want is "canon".

The Butcher's Bill

Jon's horse moved underneath him, fidgeting in the early morning light. He didn't care to discipline the beast right now either; there were much more important things to be focusing on rather than how his horse was feeling.

Plus, as a knight, he could just pass the responsibility of looking after his horse to his squire. Even now the young man was giving his horse some last-minute feed and checking that he wasn't too tightly strapped to the beast. This battle wasn't going to be one that was fought on horseback for long after all.

The initial charge would be from horseback but in the small line lanes of the large village they would be assaulting, there was only the main road they could really fit a charging horse down. So after the initial charge they would be dismounting and getting into the blood on foot; something that Jon actually preferred considering his work with a lance was very much secondary to his prowess with the weapons of the melee.

And he wanted to be close when he saw the light leave The Mountain's eyes.

As his squire went to see to his own equipment, Jon checked over his weapons and whether or not they were ready to be drawn quickly. Red Rain was strapped to the left side of the horse, ready to be drawn with his right. His axe, similarly, was actually strapped to his own side but on the right. Affixed to his left forearm was a strong ironwood shield and his lance was currently resting against his right side, ready to be used.

Perhaps all those tournament knights would actually have a use in battle after all! Of course a charge with lances was often only effective if you had flat ground to actually make the charge and enough open space to then turn the cavalry around for second attack, this time with sword, war hammer and maces rather than the lances, since they would be broken in the first charge.

But considering that this was going to come as a massive surprise to the defenders, it was considered an acceptable risk to charge through the majority of the forces, then dismount to face the disorientated enemy before they could adapt to the fact that they were now suddenly in battle rather than enjoying the spoils of a newly conquered village.

It was the Blackfish's plan and Jon didn't much care.

Jon had made certain that if anyone spotted The Mountain they were to disengage and alert himself and Gendry. The two of them would take the man apart together. Domeric, Waldis and the Blackfish would be in charge of exterminating the rest of the Lannister men. Considering they outnumbered The Mountain's Men by a good hundred or so and they were attacking with the element of surprise?

Jon didn't expect much resistance considering The Mountain's Men were mainly used as shock troops. Their ability to form an effective defence in the face of a truly surprising enemy? Well he probably wasn't going to be losing much more sleep over this battle.

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, grip on the lance tightening in preparation.

The rest of the cavalry was ready to go, all that remained was for Domeric to get the infantry ready to charge in after them and for the Blackfish to organise what the hell the archers were going to be doing. To be honest, Jon hadn't really paid much attention to any part of the plan other than the cavalry. He had wanted to, he really had, but he couldn't bring himself to focus on anything that wasn't going to bring him closer to the revenge that he wanted.

Finally, he was here.

Finally his vengeance was within sight.

He had been thinking about what he would do to The Mountain for days now. Some of it was quite disturbing even for him. He'd even asked for ideas from some of his men too and they'd come up with quite a wide variety of things they could put the monster through. Naturally, Ramsey had gushed about different methods of torturing the man to death and Jon had surprised everyone by sitting and seriously listening to each and every one of his suggestions, no matter how deranged or bloody they sounded.

They had turned Jon's stomach but he had to admit that seeing The Mountain suffer under some of them would be worth any amount of bile. He wanted to see that scum-sucking piece of shite die but he wanted it to be accompanied by more pain than the monstrous ogre had ever felt before in his entire life. He was going to kill the man but he refused to let that end goal distract him from idea of gaining vengeance for Sansa by revisiting the pain she'd felt tenfold onto The Mountain.

"You ready for this Jon?"

Jon gritted his teeth a little bit. That Gendry, of all people, had to ask that question was just stupid. Likely his friend hadn't forgotten the answer but was actually going to try and talk him out of facing The Mountain again, leaving it in Gendry's hands to end the monster. But the answer to that question hadn't changed from the first time Gendry had asked it.

"I am." He declared with a short growl, "I won't rest until my sister's killer lies dead at my feet Gendry. If you think anyone in the vanguard may stand in my way; remove them. I won't have anyone stand in the way of my vengeance."

He cast a glance at the taller man mounted beside him. They shared a look for a moment and Jon could tell by the way Gendry looked away that he understood. Jon would remove Gendry from his side in this battle if his friend was going to keep trying to stop him from having his chance at killing the man responsible for Sansa's death. His friend checked his war hammer was secured and Jon let that be the end of it, refocusing his attention on the edge of the treeline and, beyond that, the small hamlet they would be assaulting.

They currently had the cover of the trees and there were only really two entrances to the hamlet considering it was situated on the bank of one of the thinner offshoots of one of the many rivers. With the cavalry attacking from one angle and the infantry from another, there was no way for The Mountain's Men to escape.

Reaching up, Jon snapped his visor closed resolutely as he took up his lance in a ready position. Gendry and the others did the same, lances raised high in the air for now but otherwise ready to throw themselves into the battle. There would be a time where they were without infantry support, likely surrounded due to the momentum of their charge taking them further into the village.

But it didn't matter to Jon.

His men were ready, The Mountain's Men were not. And all it would take for the band of killers and cutthroats to break was the death of their figurehead himself. After all, once the Mountain had fallen his men would lose morale, being cowards at heart. The infantry charge from the other direction would just be the anvil to their hammer.

"Remember the phrase for if you spot The Mountain." He called out to his men, his visor slightly muffling his words but not enough to be unrecognisable, "A golden dragon to the man who spots him first. A mouthful of broken teeth to the man who seeks to keep my vengeance from me!"

The men rumbled their assent. None of them wanted to get in the way of his vengeance for a number of reasons. The Mountain wasn't liked; at all. And some of his men had actually had the good fortune to actually meet Sansa before she left The North. None of those who had met her wanted The Mountain to actually escape without paying for the crime.

"And my sword to whomever takes my vengeance should I fall!" he declared, "But you all know… I have need of this blade for more than this so don't expect to be holding it by the end of this day!"

A cheer at that.

Jon would be worried about the noise discipline but it didn't matter now. He raised his lance and trotted forwards, kicking his horse forwards,

"With me! For Winterfell!" He pumped his lance in the air, to the sound of another cheer, "For The North! FOR VENGEANCE!"

In the end he didn't even need to specify that it was time for the charge. Instead he kicked his own horse forwards faster and the cavalry surged forwards with him. They broke through the treeline and Jon couched his lance on instinct as the sudden light from above blinded him for a moment. The glare from the dusk sun died down as he led the charge down the short rise and onto the main dirt road into the village.

The line had formed so that he wasn't actually apart from his men, despite being the first one to start charging. His lance was joined by the first and second ranks of the cavalry, the second rank actually a good two horses behind the first so that they could safely couch their lances and destroy anyone who had survived the first rank running roughshod over them.

Jon gripped his lance tightly, lining his lance up with a Lannister man some distance ahead of him. Time seemed to slow as they thundered ever closer, the sounds disappearing for a moment so that all he could hear was his own breath and all he could see was the man's surprise and his un-blunted lance perfectly couched and aimed.

The illusion broke and Jon watched as his lance sheered right through the man's armour, breaking right through the torso of the man and flinging him bodily against a few of his fellows and, finally, against the wall of one of the small houses.

His lance broken, Jon dropped it but continued to charge with his men, his horse's large bulk completely knocking a man down, where he was then trampled to death messily beneath the hoofs of the first rank. Drawing his sword in his right hand, shield still firmly attached to his left, Jon continued to charge through the small hamlet's main thoroughfare, running down lightly armoured men as they sought to flee from the cavalry.

Following them round a slight bend, around one of the larger buildings and towards the jetty for the ferry, Jon's eyes widened behind his visor. Three ranks of archers were at the ready by the river's edge.

"Loose!"

Nothing for it then was there? Jon didn't slow down, which rallied any of the doubters he was riding with, who spurred their tiring horses onwards. The distance between the advancing Northmen and the Lannister archers was disappearing quickly but the arrows had been loosed. Jon raised his shield so that it was able to cover his neck and, actually, his horse's face.

He was wearing mostly plate armour after all, these were bowmen. The arrows were deadly, make no mistake, but at the end of the day they needed to find weak points in the armour to bite enough to kill. The horses were lightly armoured and even an unarmoured horse could take quite a few arrows before falling. But if you got a lucky shot in and got the horse's face then it would buck and you'd be down.

The arrows landed.

Jon gritted his teeth as he felt more than a few of them break against the plates of his armour and his horse slowed slightly, proof that it had not been left unscathed. His shield arm jarred slightly so he was happy he'd actually covered his mount's head too, otherwise he probably would have been thrown from the horse already. But the volley was over and with the speed they were going, the archers wouldn't be able to get another off.

Lowering his shield as he raised his sword, Jon roared in defiance as his horse ploughed into the first two ranks of archers, outright crushing the first archer and knocking the man in the second rank to the side. He plunged his sword forwards, cleaving through the heads of two of the rear most archers in one clean swipe of his sword. Rearing his horse, Jon grinned darkly behind his helmet as his horse's hoofs broke a man's skull cleanly and landed on another when it came back to rest on all four legs.

Snarling, Jon lashed out with the edge of his shield was one of the archers tried to stab his horse in the neck with an arrow. The reinforced edge of his shield broke the man's nose easily and as he staggered backwards there was a flash of steel as Gendry's war hammer turned the offender's head to a fine red mist.

Parrying a slash with a knife, Jon couldn't stop himself from laughing at the expression on the archer's face as Red Rain's supreme edge meant the frail knife had actually been cut in half. He swung the blade down, taking the man's arm and his life in a glorious spray of crimson. Kicking out with his metal-encased stirrup, Jon shattered a man's teeth before an ally claimed his life with a sword strike to the side.

The almost unarmoured archers were easy pickings for the heavily armoured and mounted Northern cavalry, dying to the man within moments while the Northerners hadn't sustained many loses at all. A few of the men had been brought down by the arrows however and most of the horses were, to put it bluntly, on their last legs.

Now that his sword was dripping in blood as the archers were slain, Jon took stock of the situation, starting with his own situation.

Lance was gone. Expected.

Shield had a few arrows stuck in it. A single swipe with his sword broke the shafts, even if the heads were firmly embedded in the wood.

His horse had taken a good half a dozen arrows and felt unsteady. A common problem as far as a quick glance as his fellows confirmed. Jon dismounted from his horse, noting how the animal managed to stay upright long enough to see his safely off before it sank to the ground. It wasn't dead but those arrows weren't going to be flesh wounds.

In all likelihood this animal wasn't ever going to run again, one of the arrows had pierced its front right leg and another had impacted its chest and dug in deep. Probably why it was struggling to breathe. And yet it had carried him in the last leg of his charge anyway. It was in pain, unlikely to ever recover and it had served him well.

Usually it was the squire's job but Jon wasn't going to make someone else do this. He rested his hand on his horse's head, covering its eyes,

"Thank you. Go to the Gods now and serve as war mount to the warriors of old." He whispered, Red Rain slitting the beast's throat quickly and efficiently to minimise the beast's suffering. He took a breath, "Gendry! Report!"

Gendry was dismounted as well and covered from head to toe on the right side by blood. As a right-handed user of the war hammer, this was a pretty standard look for Gendry, though the arrow protruding from his visor was something of a concern. His friend seemed to acknowledge this, reaching up and pulling the arrow free with a growl before opened his visor.

The arrow had gotten between the slits of the visor but had been slowed enough that it had only managed to stab into Gendry's upper right cheek. He still looked a lot more severe than Jon would have expected however,

"Jon, there's more men here than we were told." He ground out, spitting out some of the blood that had filled his mouth from the arrow's wound, "The Mountains Men don't use bows – they charge in like the crazy fucks they are and hack their victims to pieces. These shites were regular Lannister men."

Well now…that had been in the back of Jon's mind as well he had to admit. It painted a grim picture indeed but reinforcements or no, trap or no trap, Jon wasn't going anywhere. They were too committed now anyway. The mounted men of the order and their Riverlands and Northern brethren were already in the village and amongst the enemy. Horses were downed or injured, as well as some of the men. There would be no retreat until the either the infantry managed to break through the encirclement or they managed to overcome their enemies.

Unlashing his shield, Jon instead strapped it to his back and drew his axe in his left hand instead, testing its weight for a moment before glaring up the dirt road, the second and third ranks of his charge no bogged down in fighting men on foot. A lot more men on foot than they had expected. Even now he could see the doors to one of the homes being broken down and more of The Mountain's Men poured out onto the street.

"We need to rally the men." He declared strongly, "I need men to hold this jetty and I need men to follow me and lead our boys back to us! This is a defensive position – we'll funnel the enemy towards us!"

The men cheered in agreement, eager since they had only faced victory so far in this battle, no matter what trouble his other men had encountered. Gendry shot him a look,

"And how will we fall back from this position Jon?"

He had a point.

"Put some of the men to the task of finding the ferry. If it can't be found, a fishing boat instead. We control the access to the river so we can use it to escape should the worst come to pass."

Gendry nodded once and went to set some men onto the task even as Jon turned to a few of his men who were ready to link up with their fellows. Swallowing down his emotions at seeing so many of his men cut off and being swarmed by superior numbers, Jon told himself that he could throw up later. He could wallow in his own pity at having 'failed' them later.

Right now he had a chance to save some of them.

"To me!" he declared, bloody sword raised high, "Let's go get our men back from those goat fucking Lannister's!"

Jon joined in with the resounding roar that followed, charging forwards with his sword and axe in hand. Despite his fierce battle roar, the first man he met in combat wasn't actually ready for him, he was facing a small cluster of mounter Northerners instead. Jon corrected his negligence with a thrust of his sword into the man's side, between the seams of his plate armour and into his chest. Shredding the man's lungs, Jon spun to the side slightly to avoid a jab from a spear, his axe bashing a man in the side of his helmet, glancing off but stunning him enough for one of Jon's reinforcements to pull him to the ground and end him. The crowd around the dozen or so horsemen now open, Jon blocked a sword swipe with his own before capitalising with his axe and cutting off the man's sword arm before burying his sword into the man's throat.

He looked up at the horsemen,

"Pull back to the river!" he commanded, "Dismount at the river and prepare to defend until relief! Go, go, GO!"

The horsemen thundered out the gap that he and his men had made but he could already see that they had been pretty much the last of the horsemen left in the village as a whole. There were a few isolated men but they were being dragged from their horses and killed with increasing speed. It actually broke through his practised emotional deadness for a moment to see some of his men helplessly look to him for aid before they were dragged from their horses and torn limb from bloody limb.

Jon hated this but he supposed none of the commanders he'd beaten in battle had ever liked losing either.

"Back to the river! Fall back!"

The men who had come with him to free the horsemen followed his lead, pulling back along the main exit towards the jetty and the river. Rushing back, Jon was glad to see that Gendry had taken his task seriously and there was a tightly packaged shield wall in a semi-circle around where the road met the small jetty. Jon glanced back, noticing how the pursuit seemed to stop rather quickly.

Paying it no mind, Jon ushered his men back behind the shield wall. There were probably only fifty of them left in total. Jon didn't remember just how many had made the charge with him exactly but he did know that the first wave had numbered around forty. He patted Gendry on the shoulder, both of them stood behind the impressive shield wall. Spears, pikes and lances (both broken and not) were held between the gaps of the shields as the first line of defence.

Jon lifted his visor and tugged off his gauntlet, wiping sweat from his forehead as the Lannister forces spread out in front of them. At least three hundred of them… and Jon knew that their initial charge had killed dozens of them. Which meant that their estimates about the Lannister strength in the village had been drastically underestimated. Some of those scouts were going to have Jon personally beating seven hells out of them for this.

If he got out of here alive that was.

As the Lannister's surrounded them in a semi-circle of their own, Jon was considering what kind of rousing speech he could give to his, probably, doomed men. It would have to be something either hopeful or something that inspired the urge to spite the enemy.

"Ogre on the field!"

Jon froze.

That was the phrase for if someone spotted The Mountain coming into play. Looking out over the shields, Jon gritted his teeth hard as he saw the unmistakable form of The Mountain come pushing to the front of his men. The man was clan head to toe in impressive-looking plate armour but the man was seven foot tall; there wasn't any chance of him being mistaken for anyone else.

The thug who had killed his sister was right there, stepping out into the no man's land between the two forces with massive strides and what looked like boundless fucking confidence! Jon only realised that Gendry was holding him back when he felt himself being pulled back. No, that was wrong. He was actually leaning forwards and Gendry was just holding him in place.

He wanted to smack his friend in the face, vault over the shields and show this monster what happened when you fucked with the Starks. But he knew that if he did that then he would probably die and then all of his men would die as well. Licking his dry lips, Jon nodded to Gendry and pulled his gauntlet back on,

"The boats?"

Gendry tapped the side of his helmet and gestured to the other side of the river. He didn't see anything in the treeline for a moment until he caught a glimpse of some steel. He raised an eyebrow,

"Domeric and Waldis' infantry." Gendry answered the silent question in a whisper, "We have two boats. We can withdraw some of the men but… there's not a lot of them left Jon. Something has gotten itself so fucked here. I'm thinking we get as many men back as we can and… volunteers to hold the Lannister's off so the others can escape. But we're going to need a window and that's going to cost us more men."

Jon took a deep breath, eyes closed and hand squeezing the hilt of Red Rain in a rhythm. He shook his head,

"I can get us a distraction with only one more lost life." He told Gendry, clasping Gendry's forearm with his hand and pulling the man close in an embrace, "I don't know if I can win Gendry and it doesn't matter. Use this as the distraction and get our men home. Get back to the Northern armies and fuck these Lannister scumbag up. For me."

Not letting Gendry answer him, Jon released his friend and shut his visor with a sense of finality before tapping the back of his men to open the shield wall enough for him to step out, sword and axe held aloft to his sides.

The Mountain was still stood between the two forces and now that he was closer, Jon could see that he held a head in his left hand. Jon flinched behind his helmet when the head was thrown in his direction but managed to look visually unmoving as the head stopped by his feet. He stepped to the side of it without taking his eyes off The Mountain.

"You Whitewolf?" at Jon's nod, The Mountain opened his visor to show his ugly sneer, "That was the Blackfish. Strongboar's men cut through his archers and your reinforcements like sheep."

The rage was bubbling over now but Jon was the distraction. He wanted to rile up The Mountain as much as possible without getting himself killed before his men could escape. Though he did now realise just how fucked they were. Lyle 'Strongboar' Crakehall was one of the commanders of the broken armies of Kevin Lannister. He had managed to retain some control over some of the retreating forces but the last scout reports said the man and his forces were leagues away.

Yet another thing he was going to have to bring up with the scouts.

"You going to beg for mercy for your men now?"

Jon's nostrils flared angrily behind his visor and his grip on his weapons tightened. Taking a few breaths to calm himself, Jon kept his eyes on the giant of a man,

"Wolves don't beg for anything from dogs, Clegane." He bit back, noticing how the ugly sneer turned to an ugly scowl. Gods, was everything this man did ugly? Seemed that way, "Besides, you wouldn't give mercy even if you swore to all the Gods. You're a rabid dog, aren't you Clegane? You get your jollies off raping highborn girls and then killing them. Making lowborn fathers choose which of their children you're going to rape before forcing them to watch you rape all of them anyway. You don't do mercy."

That truly massive sword on Clegane's back was drawn now, held in one hand despite weighing more than most fucking men. Jon was a strong man but he knew that he wouldn't be able to fight with such a weapon, even with two hands. And this fucker was using one hand… fan-fucking-tastic.

"Neither do you. Call you the Bloody Wolf they do." He rumbled, "Heard you butchered some of my men. Don't like that Wolf…"

Feeding him straight lines here,

"Then why don't you do something about that?" he challenged, Red Rain pointed at the monstrously tall man in front of him, "You and me. My men can butcher yours… but first I want to be able to watch the life leave your eyes for what you did to my sister!"

Jeers and cheers from both sides but otherwise silence. Until there was a booming and hoarse sound that took Jon a moment to realise was actually The Mountain laughing. The man shut his visor with his free hand,

"I killed a lot of sisters…" The beast taunted, "You'll have to remind me which cunt it was."

Jon saw red for a moment and stepped forwards, sword and axe at the ready before launching himself at the larger man with a battle cry.

The Mountain's colossal sword was swung at roughly head height. Jon growled and ducked low enough to avoid the swipe but brought his axe up to catch the blade so he could use his sword to stab at his opponent's exposed side. With plate that well-made, he was going to have to attack at the seams a lot more. Valyrian Steel or not, it was probably going to be too thick for him to be able to thrust through all of it.

His thoughts were derailed when The Mountain's sword wasn't caught by his axe, instead the momentum of the swing alone was enough to yank the axe from his hand. Jon's eyes widened as his axe flew past his face and off into the distance. He had just enough time to gawp at it for a moment before he realise that The Mountain had grabbed his axe arm with his free hand.

Shite.

Jon roared in pain as the man squeezed on his left hand. The Mountain's strength was unlike what Jon had known before and he could practically hear as his little finger and pointer finger cracked and broke. The massive sword was being raised for another swing and he was currently trapped by his hand. Jon gritted his teeth against the man and roared as he stabbed downwards, throwing his body into the stab as he did so.

The Mountain's sword missing his head as Red Rain stabbed down into the man's foot, pinning him to the ground as Jon drove his weapon into the hilt. This time it was the Westerlander who roared in pain and in that brief moment he released Jon's left hand, giving Jon the freedom of movement to jump backward to avoid another massive swing of The Mountain's sword. It still connected however, hitting Jon's back with the power of a battering ram and sending him half-sprawling to the ground.

The armour there was dented but unbroken, much the same as his left shoulder blade most likely. Thankfully when The Mountain had tried to take a step forwards to capitalise, Red Rain held true and cut deeper into the man's foot, causing him to let out another bellowing roar.

Not unlike a certain bear.

Now weapon less, Jon took his shield from his back and quickly strapped it to his left arm. Annoyingly it had been hanging slightly to the right so it hadn't covered his left shoulder blade to protect against the last sword strike. But right now Jon was just glad that he had something to defend himself with. He brought his shield up in time, bracing it with his other arm as well as he did his best to push up and way with the shield to deflect his opponent's follow up slash.

The shock up his arms was immense. Was The Mountain even fucking human or was he actually a fucking Ogre like the smallfolk said? Because this much force in a properly deflected blow?

He was glad he hadn't tried to actually block the attack.

It proved, however, that he couldn't be on the defensive because The Mountain's size and strength made any engagement of that type foolish. Pushing against the natural fear in his gut, Jon roared as he charged forwards, ducking under another slash and suddenly he was inside The Mountain's guard. He struck upwards with his shield, bashing the man's visor inwards with a loud clash of steel. His right hand however, reached out and grasped Red Rain by the hilt.

Rolling forwards, between the giant's legs, Jon tore Red Rain from the giant's foot when he was disorientated. The Mountain leaned to one side and Jon capitalised, turning and stabbing his blade into the weak point behind The Mountain's other knee, the tip bursting through the front in a spray of blood even as Jon roared his bloodlust and Clegane screamed in pain as Jon hampered his mobility even more than he already had with the injury to his foot.

Jon climbed to his feet a little bit away from his opponent now, sword and shield firmly in hand. So far he'd had a few broken fingers and a left arm that was slightly sluggish due to the damage to his shoulder blade. The Mountain had a gaping hole in his left foot and his right knee had had a sword put through it. If they were scoring this on points, Jon would say that he was winning but he knew better than to count The Mountain out yet.

He needed to stay on the attack.

Pushing his aching body forwards, Jon raised his shield just in time to block another massive blow from The Mountain's sword. He was unprepared however and didn't deflect the blow as it should have been, which probably broke his wrist if the pain was any indication. Working through the pain, and seeking a way to break off the engagement to formulate a new plan of attack, Jon turned and stabbed with his sword… which stopped short.

Jon's eyes widened when he saw that his opponent, ignoring the Valyrian Steel biting into his hand through the armour, had caught his blade, his own sword dropped from the moment. The Mountain pulled and Jon felt himself almost powerless to resist as he was yanked forwards and his opponent's helmet smashed into the front of his own. The sound was incredibly and Jon could taste blood. He subconsciously checked and was somewhat relieved to find that he hadn't bitten through his tongue.

Instead, his head had impacted his helmet with enough force that his nose was most definitely broken and he couldn't be sure right now but he seemed a little light on teeth.

Jon's dizziness and mental checklist was put on hold when he felt a burning pain and felt his right shin break as a sword was stabbed clean through his armour into it. Screaming in pain, Jon was treated to another headbutt, which dazed him again but not nearing so much as before. He struggled as his helmet was yanked free from his head but the struggling stopped as he felt the sword being removed from his leg, causing him to bite down on his screams as he came face to face with his opponent.

At some point The Mountain's visor had been torn open so Jon could see the naked joy in the man's eyes and he took Red Rain and stabbed in down into Jon again. Jon was able to move himself slightly so that he avoided having his own blade stabbed into his guts but it still racked along his side. He screamed and The Mountain laughed, leaving the blade inside him as he reached down with both hands and grabbed Jon by the neck.

Immediately Jon began striking at The Mountain with his shield, hitting the man's elbow joint as hard as he could as the grip slowly tightened. Here was a man certain of his victory… he was making sure to choke Jon slowly. Jon struggled but it was feeling increasingly futile as he felt his cheeks burning and the strength fleeing from his limbs. The Mountain, sensing victory, brought his face closer,

"You know… I remember your cunt of a sister now…" he rumbled, an ugly grin on his face even as Jon's teeth gritted together tighter at the reminder, "But you know what? I don't-"

Jon didn't give a fuck what this bastard did or didn't do or remember or whatever. His right hand had finally grasped something of use and he didn't waste his opportunity, burying the broken arrow into The Mountain's eye with the last of his strength.

The pressure on his throat fled and Jon greedily gulped down as many breaths of air as he could while scrambling backwards along the ground. His progress was diabolical but to be fair he had a sword in his side, a broken and bleeding right leg and his lower left arm was even more fucked than it had been before. He didn't make it very far before The Mountain was on him again, grabbing his shield and tearing it from his left arm.

Now a cyclops, The Mountain was literally frothing as the mouth as he grabbed Jon's left arm and pulled. Jon screamed as his arm was pulled from its socket, useless now. He reached out again with his right arm but The Mountain stabbed an arrow into the exposed underside of his right forearm. Was that the fucking arrow he'd put the man's eye out with? Jon looked up at The Mountain's terrifying visage, noting his right eye was alit with anger and his left was nothing but a milky discharge and empty socket.

Yeah, that was the same arrow.

Jon didn't have much time to dwell on it however because The Mountain was on him and this time he didn't seem concerned with making it slow – only in making it bloodier and longer. The Mountain grabbed Jon's hair in one hand before grabbing his left ear with the other,

"You fucking fuck! Pretty fucker!" The Mountain spat, saliva, blood and liquid eyeball dribbling down onto Jon's face, "Think you're a fucking warrior?! You're a flowery Shite like a fucking Tyrell! You'll die as ugly as I can make you! You'll die deaf and blind and screaming for that cunt of a mother of yours!"

He wasn't really in a position to argue, all things considered. Jon struggled, trying to break the man's grip on his head even if he didn't have any clue as to what to do after that. For his trouble The Mountain bashed his head down against the ground beneath them, dazing him before he began pulling.

Jon screamed as The Mountain crowed in triumph, tearing Jon's left ear clean off his head, tearing up a few strips of skin and hair along the way too. The Mountain roared in victory, raising the bloody strip of flesh in the air to cheers, which for some reason turned to jeering for a moment for some reason.

The Mountain jerked forwards with a gasp of pain. Jon blinked dully up at the man who would be his end, confused as he jerked forwards again, this time roaring with anger and pain as he turned to the side. Jon followed his gaze, eyes widening as Gendry appearing at the side with a snarl as his war hammer lashed out, slamming into The Mountain's shoulder, the armour making a Gods awful sound as the force of the blow rent the armour and doubtlessly powdered the man's shoulder.

Jon watched with wide eyes as Gendry, helmet absent for some reason, raised his war hammer up high before bringing down in a massive display of strength atop The Mountain's helmet. Before his eyes, Jon watched in seemingly slow motion as Clegane's helmet first seemed to crumple downwards before his face seemed to sag and his remaining eye was squished by its own rapidly shrinking socket. His teeth shattered and his tongue seemed to disappear into a spray of blood, which was quickly followed by the rest of the man's head as the skin suddenly seemed to be pulled tight for a moment before it split in multiple places and blood geysered forth.

The Mountain slumped before a follow-up bashing of Gendry's hammer rent his chest plate inwards and sent the now headless corpse falling backwards and away from Jon. Despite killing The Mountain, Gendry didn't spare a single moment, grabbing Jon bodily by the edge of his armour and throwing him over his shoulder. The movement caused literally all of Jon's wounds to sear with pain and he screamed his displeasure despite himself even as Gendry charged back to the Northern lines, which were actually closer than the Lannister ones.

A gap in the shield wall was held open for them just long enough for Gendry to literally leap through with Jon on his shoulder, looking back as the shield wall held against the full weight of the Lannister forces. Gendry was breathing heavily as he raced along the jetty. Jon assumed there was a boat but he was looking behind him, seeing the sheer weight of numbers beginning to overwhelm the rather undermanned shield wall.

At least most of the men had managed to flee then.

"Get him in the boat!"

Jon knew that voice… Waldis?

Sure enough, Waldis and the dozen or so other Frey knights were at the end of the jetty and Jon found himself being laid in a fishing boat, judging by the smell at least. Even with Gendry being as gentle as possible, Jon still had to stifle a cry of pain. That was probably from Red Rain… which was still stuck in the side of his gut actually. Probably stuck in his… what had Sam called it? Kidney? Yeah that sounded right.

Waldis looked at him once even as Gendry grabbed both oars from two other occupants of the boat and began rowing, using his sheer strength to rapidly begin the crossing. Jon kept his gaze on the jetty, seeing the shield wall breaking at the end of it.

"Brothers… Cousins… Kinsmen!" Waldis cried, shield out with his sword braced atop it, ever the picture of a brave knight facing a villainous charge, "The Northmen came to the aid of our people! They gave us time to recover and ready our strike back! Now be with me as we repay that debt and give the Northmen the chance to retreat and recover… with me men of the Frey lands! FOR THE CROSSING!"

Jon watched, his tongue unable to mouth to form what he wanted to say as Waldis and his Frey relatives, perhaps a dozen, charged down the length of the jetty to meet the onrushing horde of Lannister men. Their boat wasn't far enough out to avoid any arrow shots or even well-placed spear throws… but Waldis Frey charged forth to buy Gendry enough time to get him far enough away to be safe.

He cried silently as he saw Waldis and his kin disappearing underneath men clad in Lannister red, eager to get some measure of meat now that Jon and Gendry had reached the opposite riverbank and were out of their clutches. Feeling the boat run aground on the riverbank, Jon gritted his teeth in preparation but still cried out as Gendry lifted him again and rushed forwards,

"Where can I set him down?"

"Over here!"

Sam?

Was that Sam?

Jon opened his eyes, forcing himself to turn his head to see that he was being led to the flat bed of what looked like a farmer's wagon. He held in a scream as he was laid down on the wagon. Usually when he was injured he'd clamp a hand to the wound that hurt the most but both of his arms were fucked enough that he didn't really feel like doing that right now. Instead he felt practiced hands taking his armour off and tossing the metal aside.

"Sam?"

His portly friend was sat in the wagon with him, herbs and bandages abound. Was this Sam's 'medical wagon'? It certainly stank like it. But why would Sam be away from camp? He wanted to ask the question but dear Gods was he dizzy. Thankfully for Jon's curiosity, Gendry had climbed into the back of the wagon as well and seemed just as curious as he was,

"What happened Sam?" Gendry demanded, none to gently, "I get Jon here and expect to get back to camp and Dom tells me "we don't have time" and starts marching the men like fucking slaves! Start talking! NOW!"

Gods Gendry had a set of lungs on him. Jon wanted to know as well so he didn't blame his friend. He just tried to keep himself from crying out in pain as Sam pulled Red Rain out without preamble before working to stem the bleeding.

"It was all a trap." He mumbled as he threw a strange powder onto Jon's wound that made him cry out as his skin felt like it was on fire, "All of it. The attack on The Mountain… the prisoners…"

Jon ignored the pain in his right arm and reached up, grabbing Sam's loose robes. Sam seemed more surprised that he was awake than anything else,

"W-who… who did we lose?" he managed to grind out, pulling his healer friend closer when he hesitated, "Tell me!"

Sam broke his grip with almost laughable ease and pushed him down again. Diligent to the last, Sam continued to give his attention to the stab wound instead of Jon for a moment before the answer came,

"Everyone, Jon. I was out gathering herbs with a couple of scouts when they attacked…"

A pregnant pause where Jon forced him to grab onto Sam's robes again. He didn't pull this time, he let the gesture alone speak about how desperate he was for answers. Sam looked down at him with eyes that was suspiciously red around the edges,

"It was Lancel, Jon."

Jon's hand fell and he couldn't bring himself to care. Bleeding and beaten in the back of a herbal wagon, Jon looked out the back of the wagon at his demoralised men… who were all that remained of his order and The Blackfish's men as well. He felt his eyes growing heavier as his head slumped back so all he could see was the early night sky above them instead.

For the first time in a long time… he had lost.

Not a tactical withdrawal or anything so forgiving; he'd lost. His forces were destroyed almost to a man, his body was broken and he had lost at least, at least, one of his best friends today.

Waldis had paid for his mistakes and had died for him.

Jon would see that Lancel Lannister paid the same price, before all the Gods he swore it.


	36. Chapter 35

AN: For anybody still wondering; this story is not over. Chapter 34b is the 'canon' chapter and this is the continuation. There is a slight time skip.

Broken Men

Jon sat at the desk that had been arranged for him, finding even this simple task to be painful. It was almost to the point of being something he couldn't actually push himself to do but… but he refused to let Sam or Gendry or anyone else do this. This was something that he would have to do and there was absolutely no getting around that.

"Next name Sam."

Ever the faithful companion, Sam was holed up with him in his room in the Children's Tower. The Moat had been repaired to a standard that Jon would happily say probably exceeded the expectations of the First Men who had defended it in ages past. But both occupants knew that the real reason Sam was in this well-restored room had nothing to do with the décor, such as it was, and had little to do with helping Jon actually write either.

No, Sam was here as his attending 'medical advisor' until that disgraced maester of Bran's get here for Jon's first 'official examination'.

Jon had never been left alone with the disgraced maester and, judging by the looks the man gave his body when he thought no one was looking, that was probably a good thing. But this time? Ah well this time it would be different, this time Bran had insisted that he put up with the way his skin crawled.

His little brother was of the opinion that to actually heal right, Jon would have to use some rather different treatments. Jon looked down at himself for a moment, feeling a pang of bitterness run through him. What gave Bran the right to talk about how he needed to push himself to try new treatments? The boy was the picture of health. Jon was the one who couldn't get to sleep at night for the pain and the complete lack of any resting position that didn't agitate at least one of his many wounds.

His leg ached, even sat in a chair, and Jon found himself wanting to scratch at the bandages around his gut. He resisted the urge only because he knew that Sam would insist on him leaving their duty so that he could undress the wound, poke and prod at it for a good hour, before redressing the wound and insisting that he rest again.

As he was right now, Jon literally didn't have the strength to force the bigger man to let him do what he wanted.

"Robyn Waters."

He paused for a moment, his hand seizing for a moment as a spasm of pain ran through his right forearm. Swearing under his breath, Jon tucked his chin to his chest to better hold in the whimper as his wounded right forearm spasmed, the damaged muscles reacting to being used too much. A fucking quill was almost too much for him… fuck this! He glared at Sam when he felt, rather than saw, the bigger man make to help him.

Invalid though he may be, Jon rejected help at almost every turn.

It was self-destructive and he knew it but he was a stubborn bastard and that wasn't going to change. In fact, it was probably the only reason he actually got himself out of bed in the morning now. That and finishing this Gods' damned letter… he refused to let something so simple beat him because he knew, in the back of his mind, that if something this simple could beat him then there was no hope for him of ever being better than he was right now.

And that? That was not an option as far as Jon was concerned; he might as well bite off his own tongue and choke on it if it ever came to that.

The spasms seemed to peter off, allowing Jon a small reprieve from that pain, even if his gut wound was beginning to itch a bit more. His left arm… well he wasn't left handed anyway when it came to writing so it almost didn't matter that it was taped tightly to his side so he didn't agitate the many wounds along its length.

Picking up the quill again, Jon scratched out the name in a shaking hand before just pausing to let his fingers seem to realise what they were supposed to be doing again. Somehow that fucking arrow to his arm had messed up everything further down. Not too much but enough that it made pretty much every action with that hand harder than it should have any right to be.

Fuck.

This was never going to be getting any better was it? He was never going to be able to raise his sword against him enemies again, all he was going to be able to do is just sit, or lay, as his brothers rushed into danger and his friends died. He swallowed thickly and forced himself to ask,

"Next name Sam?"

The silence was stark.

Eventually, Sam sighed to himself at a volume he was certain his bigger friend thought he couldn't hear. He glanced to his friend from the Reach as he checked a few pieces of parchment. He considered the larger man for a moment before speaking again,

"Tell me the truth Sam…" he caught his friend's undivided attention, "Do you think I'll recover from this? Or am I destined to remain as useless as I am now?"

Calculating eyes took in his broken form and Jon managed to not feel angry at the gaze, even if he did feel a pit of shame rest in his gut. Not even a few weeks ago, his friend would have looked at him and seen a strong warrior and now he would see nothing but the shell of said man. Hells, the only reason he hadn't grown a beard like some of those injured veterans of Robert's Rebellion was that Bran had arranged for a servant boy to help him shave once a day.

Sam shifted slightly on his feet, shifting his not insubstantial bulk from one foot to the other for a few moments,

"What you have to remember, Jon, is that you aren't defined by how effective you are on the battlefield. Or, at least, you don't have to be." He reasoned, "Look at me. My own father sent me to join the Night's Watch because he was convinced I would never be anything other than a disappointment to him and his name. Now? He's written to me Jon. He's heard about some of the things I've done… like the incidents with the Whitehills."

That episode had been… well it had been a Gods' honest nightmare at the time is what it had been. It was something that had pushed him to accept that battle could seldom ever be glorious like the stories said.

The Whitehills and the Forresters hated each other to such a degree that it was barely possible for members of the same family to be within the same league of each other. Of course the incident Sam was referring to was a Whitehill-backed raids on some of the Forrester loggers, that Jon, Sam and the Lords had been commissioned by Lord Gregor to investigate and put an end to.

The ambush had been brutal and man of his men had been injured but not killed, to serve as both warning and distraction. And their deaths would serve to make almost any victory seem worthless when it was weighed against how many deaths there had been. Jon had counter attacked hard but the simple fact was that those who had been downed by the first few volleys of arrows would have died… had Samwell Fucking Tarly not gone briefly fucking mad.

That was how Jon and the others referred to it when time and safety had allowed.

Sam, completely unarmoured since they hadn't even reached the Forrester lands, had dashed across an active battlefield to grab an injured man from the edge of the battle, cast down and forgotten, and carry him to the more defended rear of their column. It was something that everyone agreed had been mad and they'd made him promise not to do it again. Instead he'd encouraged fighting men to pull their wounded friends back if it was possible. Honestly, the fact that he gave such a damn about every fighting man earned him a lot of good will from the men.

Apparently it had a similar effect on the Tarly patriarch.

"He called me mad." He revealed with a small smile, "Mad or brave. He was convinced that it was either fake or that it was proof that I might just be his son… I kept doing it and he kept writing me. My point, Jon, is that I was seen as worse than you are right now because my efforts to become a warrior were doomed to failure. So I didn't try and become a warrior. I pushed all of my efforts in a different path and I gained, at least some of, the respect that I always wanted."

A nice little speech.

Very motivational for most people he would think.

Of course there was a little bit of a fucking difference between not being able to stomach killing another man and being crippled beyond most reasonable use after all. Even the Tyrell heir was still able to get around under his own power and could fight if he absolutely had to. Jon didn't have the luxury of such an easy disability; his left arm would literally never work again, his right leg would never support his weight again and his right arm was no prize either. That was what Sam had reported to Gendry and Bran when they had thought he was asleep.

Honestly, he didn't know why he'd bothered to actually ask the question of Sam. Maybe some kind of desperate hope? A mad little part of him that thought that his friend actually had some hope that he would be able to regain what he had lost? Fuck knows.

Didn't matter; Sam might as well have agreed with his worst feelings when he went on to explain how Jon could be useful in other ways.

Basically saying he didn't believe he'd ever return to what he had been before.

Fuck.

He'd dropped the quill and picking things up was something of a chore right his only usable hand at the moment. There was a pain near his elbow but he ignored it as best he could as he grasped the instrument again, scratching out one of the names he could remember off the top of his head. He paused for a long moment before tossing the quill aside, an action he noted gained a raised eyebrow from Sam.

Ignoring his friend, Jon pushed the piece of parchment away from him with a light wave of his free hand,

"Seal and sent it Sam." He told his friend with a scowl as he braced himself against the table with his free hand and his chair with his left shoulder. Ignoring the burst of pain, Jon surged to his feet, clinging to the table so he didn't fall when his right leg buckled under him. This gave him enough time to strengthen his left leg enough for him to stand.

Fuck's sake.

Standing was really fucking hard. Walking unaided?

Yeah that was even more of a pile of 'nope' than the idea of standing on that fucking leg of his. Taking a few deep breaths, Jon was saved the indignity of asking Sam to fetch his crutch by his friend appearing beside him, the offending piece of wood in hand. Tucking its padded end under his right arm, Jon tested it gingerly.

Some part of him was always convinced that the wood would snap and he'd tumble to the ground like some kind of demented circus acrobat.

Once he was fairly certain that it wasn't going to send him on a painful trip to the stone floor, Jon moved further away from the desk,

"Why are you even moving Jon?" Sam asked from his side as Jon moved to his bed-side, aiming for a goblet of water before anything else, "Healer Qyburn will be here soon; I'm sure he wouldn't mind if you sat for most of your examination."

It was a precarious balancing act, but Jon managed to prop his crutch in such a way that it supported him as he used his salvageable hand to snag a goblet. As was always the case these days, the goblet wasn't anywhere near full, for fear that he wouldn't be able to hold it if it were too heavy, what with the pangs of pain that seemed designed entirely for ruining his limited control of his only usable hand.

Taking a few gulps, he half placed and half dropped the goblet back where he had picked it up from, grabbing hold of his crutch with renewed determination,

"Everything in my life has been about strength, Sam." He answered his friend through gritted teeth as he rode out another spasm of pain down his left arm before trusting himself to move again, "Strength of body made me a warrior. Strength of conviction made me the bane of the Ironborn. And, with any luck, strength of will may allow this twisted healer a chance to mend me."

"Ah… a very useful attitude my Lord."

As much as he wanted to spin round at the speaker, present some kind of defence against what may well be a threat, Jon was limited to what his body would allow. Which at this point consisted of a flinch and a half-turn that allowed him to see the speaker at the cost of his right leg almost disappearing from his feeling entirely, so acute was the protesting pain.

He had managed to avoid screaming like a woman so… small victories in this war eh?

Finally able to see the man who had spoken, Jon's eyes narrowed suspiciously almost immediately.

There was no logical reason why he should be distrustful of the person who had spoken; indeed, Sam seemed to positively relax upon catching sight of the man. And for all appearances, he looked like nothing more than a kind old man. Kind of like what he imagined a child would think of a grandparent to look like if they had never had the fortune of seeing their true grandparents themselves. He had an easy smile and bright eyes that caught the light in what, he assumed, looked like a playful sparkle to others.

To him though?

There was just something about the man that made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end and his shoulders tighten, his muscles attempting to coil themselves in the way they had always done before he launched himself into combat. But for the life of him, Jon couldn't explain why he felt so uncomfortable around the old man. Still, at least he wasn't the only person in the room who looked wary.

Bran stand to the side of the ex-maester, a deep frown making his face look even more narrow and severe than it already was. For though Bran had taken his mother's colouring, his bone structure marked him as much a Stark as any who had shared his name throughout the years. He was tall for his age but appeared to be rather slight, like he was capable of fighting but hadn't thrown himself into it with the same fervour as Jon and Robb had.

Honestly, his younger brother reminded him of his lord father, complete with the seldom smile and the severity that made men twice his age look to him whenever any matter of import came along.

And he was giving Qyburn the darkest look he had seen in a long time, doing absolutely nothing to hide his distaste for the man. This… well it actually spoke well of the ex-maesters skills if he was honest with himself. If Bran, who quite clearly hated the man, could put that aside to let the man attempt to treat him, it suggested that this Qyburn had some truly remarkable skills in the healing arts.

Jon tried not to entertain any thoughts about why such a talented healer had been stripped of his chain by the Citadel.

He was certain that Sam or Bran would have told him in a heartbeat if he had truly cared to know but honestly? Jon didn't want to know. If this man could heal his broken body, even partially, Jon wouldn't care what the man had done. No matter how many laws of Gods and men the man had broken, Jon would chose the same choice again and again.

He just preferred to do so with some ignorance intact for his weak morality's sake.

"Healer Qyburn?"

There wasn't really a need to ask but it was more of a greeting than a question to be honest and everyone in the room knew it. The man's smile held a comfortable warmth but somehow still managed to make his stomach churn for a moment,

"That is what they call me." He agreed amicably, "I think of myself more of a scientist than a healer but I admit; I likely know more about the human body and it's workings than any man of the chain."

Well now… wasn't that ominous as seven different Hells?

Bran seemed to think so as well, shifting slightly in place, is gaze never leaving Qyburn for even an instant. Sam seemed perfectly at ease however,

"I like to think the maesters don't know everything either." He agreed with the ex-maester, "They're a good start but some of their material is a bit… out of date maybe? I've got a notebook of all the improvements I've found myself."

Qyburn's eyes seemed to positively glow as his smile stretched and his attention left Jon for a moment to fix Sam with his undivided attention,

"A fellow believer!" he declared with a clap of his hands, "Oh young man we shall have to compare notes sometime in the future! For now though…"

Jon found himself pinned with that unsettling gaze again,

"I believe I've read enough of your notes on Ser Jon's condition to do a brief examination and begin the first procedure." He declared, turning to Bran even as he left Jon blinking in confusion, "The men will bring my supplies?"

Bran ground his teeth before nodding, barking the relevant orders to a few men outside the door before moving closer to Jon as Sam and Qyburn had an animated conversation by the door. Making sure that he wasn't taking hold of anything wounded, Bran gripped Jon's right shoulder in his hand rather tightly,

"I'll be here for the procedures brother." He assured him, his voice hard and cold even though Jon could see the same tenderness as before in his dark grey eyes, "I know this healer is incredible at his work… but what he does isn't nice. I'll keep watch to make sure that he keeps himself on fucking topic alright?"

Jon had to admit that he rather appreciated that. But still…

"Watch your fucking language you little shite." He immediately retorted with, amused by how Bran's face kind of dropped in shock until he noticed that Jon was obviously ribbing him, "Father would never stand for such language."

Slipping into the mind-set that Jon had wanted to encourage, Bran just rolled his eyes, arms folded,

"Aye, says the man who can't even stand."

Ouch.

Okay so that one had hit home a bit too keenly for Jon to really just accept it but it wasn't like it was untrue. Instead he just smirked a little bit, the expression noticeably lessened,

"Aye."

His little brother deflated but Jon just waved off his concern and took off towards the bed, his crutch a godsend at the moment. He didn't exactly want to linger around Bran after that last jab and leaning on someone to be able to walk kind of brought them close to linger with you. Reaching the bed, Jon gave both Bran and Sam a brief wave as they left; Sam to fetch some more materials and Bran to check on something or other.

Strangely enough, he was more focused on the healer he was being left alone with.

After all, he knew that he was beyond most forms of medical aid and any kind of aid that this ex-maester could offer would either be experimental or banned. Or both knowing his luck. Hells, maybe this was one of those maesters who believed that magic was still something that could be harnessed?

What a fucking joke they were.

Magic was as absent from this world as The Others and the Children of the Forest. He believed that it had existed but there was almost no chance that either of those groups would return so magic wasn't something to worry about. Or obsess about like some of the maesters with their Valyrian steel links would.

Laying himself down, with much difficulty, Jon decided he might as well satisfy his curiosity and distract himself from the pain such movement had brought him,

"Tell me healer Qyburn… did you have many Silver links in your Maester's chain?"

The old man paused in his, rather engaged, watching of Jon's movements. There was a moment where Jon could have sworn he saw something dark and ugly flash in the old man's eyes but it was gone in the blink of an eye, the old man undisturbed by the question,

"Oh yes, yes." He answered distractedly, giving Jon's right knee a poke with a bony finger. Thankfully the knee was one of the parts that didn't hurt so he didn't swear at the elderly healer, "I have almost a dozen Silver links – I knew more about medicine than most of the council combined. But I only had one other type of metal in my chain. I wanted to make sure I studied what I wanted to the ends that I desired; so less distraction from useless subjects like economics or, gods forbid, ravenry."

Huh.

Seemed like Qyburn had almost been as focused as Jon himself had been. Of course now he had an even more burning question in mind. He waited until he was laid on his back, reasonably comfortable, before actually asking the question,

"And that other metal I wonder…" he glanced at the healer, keeping an eye on the man as he opened up a small wooden box, keeping the contents hidden from Jon's sight, "Wouldn't happen to have been Valyrian Steel would it?"

Qyburn chuckled obligingly but seemed to have had enough of talking about himself. Before Jon could react, the ex-maester withdrew his hand from the box and lunged at his prone form. Jon's eyes widened as he watched the man plunge what looked like a fucking porcupine quill into the side of his neck. He tried to speak but found that what little of his strength had remained was fleeing his body rapidly.

Still, his frantic eye movement must have told Qyburn what sort of questions he wanted to ask. The elderly healer seemed in absolutely no rush as he removed the object from Jon's neck and dabbed away at the blood pooling from the puncture wound,

"Oh now Ser, there's no need to look so afraid." He tutted, "I had come to think you were somewhat educated; surely you know that a good surgeon never operates without some form of anaesthesia? Well here is a concoction of my own. Yes, you may begin sweating and, yes, you will have a fever but you may also notice that you can no longer move yes?"

Not much of a difference considering his sorry state but when Jon attempted movements he knew he was still capable of, he found his entire body unresponsive. Good Gods he wanted to fucking scream! This was like all of the fears and worries he'd been having since he first awoke with his injuries, piled on top of each other and burying him alive.

Was it getting hard to breathe? Holy fuck. It was! The mad fucker had poisoned him with something that paralyzed him and it was working on his breath! He was going to suffocate lying awake in his own fucking bed!

Qyburn seemed to notice his predicament and, in rather an unhurried manner, selected another box and produced a more typical potion. Pouring some in Jon's mouth, the healer massaged his throat to force him to swallow the mixture. After a few more agonising moments of frantic, shallow, breaths, Jon was relieved to find that his chest seemed to loosen enough to allow him to breathe properly again… even if he still couldn't move.

"You probably think that something terrible is going to happen to you." Qyburn stated, there wasn't a question to be seen, as he began unwrapping Jon's injuries to lay them all bare before him, "You're quite right, I'm afraid. But terrible things have to happen sometimes you see. To put it a way you may be familiar with; I'm quite certain that being healed till glowing and then hammered wouldn't be pleasant for a length of steel. But it is required to forge a sword. Do you follow?"

Fucking hells… the man had drugged him the very second that no one was around to stop him, was going to be doing unspeakable things to his vulnerable body and he was monologuing. And he surely was monologuing because there was no way that Jon was going to be able to answer with his jaw and tongue being so uncooperative. Instead he did his best to burn through the man's face with the intensity of his gaze.

"Oh of course. The dose was rather strong; I was working under the assumption that you would be around the same weight as the last time your brother saw you. You've lost quite a bit of weight since then so this dose may be too much…" he seemed to be mildly annoyed at that part but Jon would bet his sword that it was more of a professional annoyance than any annoyance at having increased the risk of death to Jon himself, "But I digress. Blink once for yes, twice for no and three times for what, I am certain, would be very long insult, involving lots of curse words."

Oh he wanted to curse the man out of the room alright, but the fact that the healer had 'predicted' that as a response was something that annoyed Jon enough not to respond with that option. Qyburn hummed as he poked around in Jon's lower leg, moving the ruined limb around to see the interior of the wound better, a candle held close for light. He hated the toxin he had been injected with, he hated being paralyzed but he would admit that he did enjoy the respite from all the pain.

"Now, Ser, I will warn you that this next part will hurt. No toxin or mixture I have come across or created has ever been able to make this sort of pain go away." The healer told him, that damned easy smile never leaving his face even though his hands were now, literally, covered in blood, "This entire process will hurt more than acquiring these wounds. I am certain of that. And of one last thing; if you survive this process you will begin your road to recovering the life you once lost."

He placed his hands on either side of Jon's head and peered down at him. From Jon's perspective the older man was upside down but it didn't do anything to hide the excited gleam in the healer's eyes,

"Do you want this Ser Jon? Do you want to recover what you have lost? Will you stand the pain?" he urged, "Remember… twice for no…"

Jon blinked once, resisting the urge to blink three times to simulate swearing at the deranged ex-maester. But in the end… what would that accomplish? This might not be something he would ever be comfortable with, but it was something that he would accept if it was going to be giving him his life back.

In the end the choice was as certain as the pain.


	37. Chapter 36

Note: I have had the pleasure of narrative advice from Hadian and very thorough beta-reading from BrokePerception. My thanks to both for their hard work.

Valar Dohaeris

King Joffrey "The Red" Baratheon

First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men. Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm

How had his father actually attended these meetings for so many years? Oh, yes, the wine. He supposed that being drunk would probably have done a great deal to make him more amenable to being talked at by some of the most boring people within the Seven Kingdoms. Then again, he had never been one to hold his wine, much less to the same legendary levels as his father.

In fact, the last time he remembered being properly drunk had been with his father during the campaign to repel the invading forces of the Three Sisters. If his, admittedly hazy, memory served him rightly, then they had gone whoring for a bit and his father had actually mentioned how proud he was of him.

That campaign had been… enlightening in so many ways for Joffrey.

He had finally seen that his father had, in his own way, loved him. His mother had spoken at great length about how his father hated him and his siblings, and he had begun to see it himself at times. However, in the end, it had been so different; his father truly had loved him and his siblings, but it had been hard for him to express it, having lost his own father at a rather young age. Nonetheless bonding with Joffrey over war, wine and whoring had loosened his father enough for the truth of the matter to come out.

Aside from the revelation of his father's love for him, Joffrey had learnt how better to control himself and his less than savoury tastes. Yes, he had killed cats around the palace, and yes, he had been cruel to the peasants because he could be. Although when he had gone to war, amid all that blood and carnage… Gods, he'd lost himself in the beautiful feeling of gutting his enemies and watching their lifeblood burst from them in arcs of glorious crimson.

However, rather than be reviled for his appetites… his men had cheered for him.

The trick wasn't pretending that he wasn't a sadist − no, the trick was directing into avenues that people accepted. People had accepted it when his father had whored around every day. People had accepted those Starks decapitating prisoners themselves. Why shouldn't people accept it when he slaughtered the men his armies had captured? Why shouldn't they accept it when he kept the cells full of known and confessed traitors?

Sitting in his chair, apple in hand, Joffrey had been lost in thoughts of the previous battles, the blood, and what he wanted to be doing to the favourite Myrish slave of one of the generals he'd captured. Perhaps the old man should watch this time?

Decisions, decisions.

"Nephew?"

Snapping back to the small council meeting at hand, Joffrey noted that his entire council, plus his mother, were looking to him. Thankfully, he had managed to persuade his mother that he didn't need her speaking for him. And the bruises he'd given her had persuaded her that she was in no position to make decisions on behalf of the Crown, despite sitting on the small council as an advisor.

Of course, 'beloved Uncle Renly' was the speaker.

Oh, that reminded him! He hadn't visited Ser Loras in some time. Though officially he was a knight in Joffrey's service, it was known to Loras, to Renly and to those backstabbing Roses in Highgarden, that Loras Tyrell was a hostage and a prisoner. And a rather pretty little thing when he was crying… Joffrey felt a stirring and couldn't help but direct a look at his uncle, a man who was now also little more than a glorified hostage.

Maybe he'd let him hear his fun with Loras this time?

Decisions, decisions.

"Yes, Uncle?" he answered with an easy, slightly lop-sided, smile, "You'll have to forgive me; I was positively miles away. Doing something much more pleasant! Though, I'm sure, ultimately not as useful. Where were we?"

Oh, how he loved making people squirm. Before, he had enjoyed encouraging such a reaction purely through being outwardly horrifying, but now? Well, Baelish had been rather useful in some respects. Disarm your foes with a smile and warm words and then twist the knife with that same smile. He knew there was a reason to keep such a slimy man around besides the discounts he received for some of his more delicate boys and girls coming back a little… damaged.

Baelish was still sitting smugly next to Varys, his master of coin and whisperers respectively. Unfortunately, Pycelle was still here. The Hand of the King's place remained empty as his grandfather Tywin was still in the field… and he had been unable to find a Master of Laws who didn't repulse him so far. Something about reading dusty old tomes about laws and precedents probably made them somehow even more unattractive than they naturally were. And dear Uncle Renly as Master of Ships!

This, however, was kind of a moot point, considering Stannis had stolen the entirety of the Crown's fleet. They'd been away performing naval war games when Eddard Stark had been imprisoned and this rebellion against his rule had begun. Oh, and lo and behold this was what they were supposed to be discussing!

"The traitor, Stannis Baratheon, continues to consolidate his forces both at Dragonstone and Storms End," his uncle reported, looking rather nervous as he began to list which Stormland houses had elected to stand with Stannis Baratheon rather than himself. The long and the short of it? Joffrey commanded the loyalty of less than a dozen of the houses closest to the Crownlands while his treacherous uncle Stannis enjoyed the support of both the Narrow Sea houses and the majority of the Stormlands.

"Have we blocked the Kingsroad?"

He looked around at his council, rather annoyed that Ser Barristan Selmy was busy attending to other matters and so was unavailable to be a voice of military sense here. That left the duty to himself since none of the others had direct knowledge of warfare like he had. It was actually a rather nice feeling, to be surrounded by 'masters in their fields' and yet know more than them in a very important area of ruling the Kingdoms.

"We have blocked the Kingsroad from where it emerges through the Kingswood," Renly reported, having glanced at some notes, "The majority of the houses within the Kingswood are sworn to fight the traitor Stannis."

 _Yes, yes_ _,_ _dear Uncle, please try and stop using every opportunity to push the idea that you are not a traitor like your brother._

Well, that was what he wanted to say, but that would be needlessly cruel and would gain more attention from the other members of his council. Even the guards would speak of how he had torn into his uncle. No, better that none of them knew the true depths of what he wanted to do with all of them here.

"And what of the Roseroad?"

 _Why did they all look so surprised?_

"Joffrey, my son…" his mother began, beginning to sound like she had when explaining something simple to Tommen when they were younger, something that ought not be explained, "The Roseroad is in the Reach, not the Stormlands."

The council was silent as all turned from watching his mother speak to waiting for his reaction. It… it took more control than Joffrey thought it would take, but he managed to avoid reacting outwardly. Internally? Well, he was raging and considering just how to punish his mother for daring to insult him so openly in front of _his_ council.

Joffrey stood, taking a small amount of pleasure in how his mother flinched at the movement, before moving to the giant map of the Seven Kingdoms that dominated one wall of the council chambers. Playing with the apple in his left hand, Joffrey ran a finger along the length of the Roseroad, where it began at King's Landing and travelled down into the Reach.

He paused at the closest point between the Stormlands and the Roseroad, a point west of the Kingswood.

"Here," he declared, tapping the map to make sure his point was made abundantly clear, "If Uncle Stannis takes his men and marches through this area here… he negates the need to march through the Kingswood and his army marches on a well-maintained road that leads him straight to _my_ doorstep."

He turned to his council, of which each member was beginning to show signs of understanding. His mother was beginning to show signs of both understanding and fear to be honest. It wasn't enough, though – he would have to find a way to show his mother that he was in control and she had better step back in line.

Perhaps something to do with Tommen? No, his little brother was beginning to idolise him for his military exploits and improved martial abilities. Having his brother's blind loyalty was worth more to him than striking a blow at his mother.

Nonetheless, his sweet sister was still rather wary of him. And she did look a treat in those summer dresses of hers… Oh, that could work quite nicely actually. But it would require more planning. For now, he would just give his dear mother another reminder of the reality of their relationship. Joffrey stepped up to his mother's side, running a hand along her arm to rest it on her shoulder. He smiled a little more when she was unable to fully hide her shiver. He placed the apple in front of her.

"You see, mother… when you want to get to the core of an apple fastest, you don't go through the side, do you? No!" He had drawn his dagger and stabbed it into the apple from the top in one smooth motion. "No, mother! You go straight for it! Just as Uncle Stannis will go straight for King's Landing. He couldn't care less for the Kingswood or the Kingsroad. He'll cut across the Tyrells' vassals and be at our gates while you and Uncle Renly are still setting up ambushes in the Kingswood."

He left her, leaving the dagger and apple behind as well.

"Remember, if you can, my Lords and Lady, that Stannis Baratheon needs to win this war quickly!" he reminded them, false cheer colouring his speech as he moved to lean against the back of his chair, keeping them all in sight, "Every month he delays, people become less certain of the 'evidence' he has supplied of my supposed Bastardry. People begin to doubt it more. If he was right, they'll say, surely the Gods would have granted him more victories? Stannis Baratheon finds himself forced to attack. And we? All we have to do is defend ourselves successfully and watch as Stannis' once loyal lords line up to be the first to stab him in the back on my behalf."

They were looking at him, and there was… some respect there. He felt his chest puff up slightly despite himself. Of course, there was still fear there, which he appreciated as well, but the respect was welcome. He waved a hand at them, and they accepted the dismissal for what it was, his mother all but running from the chambers. Smirking slightly, he held a hand out to stop Renly.

"Uncle Renly, I would like to speak with you in private about the problem with Edric Storm," he told his uncle with a pat on the back, "See me about an hour after evening meal? In my private solar? You know the one; 'tis beside my father's old bed chambers."

Of course his uncle didn't, couldn't, refuse, so it was a date. He watched his uncle's retreating back, and Joffrey signalled for one of the guards to come closer. Licking his lips a little bit, he commanded,

"Instruct Ser Loras to come to my chambers immediately following evening meal," pausing only to add, "And bring my riding crop this time as well."

Now he knew that Loras Tyrell's tears made fucking the man rather appealing, but how would having the man's lover, Joffrey's own uncle, listening in the other room change things? Judging by how snug his breeches had become, he imagined it would change things only for the better.

Speaking of better… he wondered if he could have Loras cry out that he was better than Uncle Renly when the man was waiting for their meeting.

He had to remind himself to reign in the laughter.

Lady Arya Stark

The Golden Fang

Nymeria rather liked Seaguard.

She supposed it might have something to do with the sea breeze that rolled through. Even she had to admit that it was rather pleasant, though it felt different to the breeze that she had experienced on Bear Island or back home. Something about this sea was strange to her; the sea of Bear Island was cold, cold in the way that it chilled you to even look at it. However, this? This sea right here?

Well, it was positively boring.

It wasn't too cold, and even now, it wasn't too choppy either; it was a nice and calm bay, and it annoyed her. Why wasn't it stormy and tumultuous? She was, so why wasn't this treacherous sea reflecting what was happening in the world? Injustices were piling up against her family, and yet the world carried on as if it were just another, calm and peaceful, day.

Strangely enough, that actually got her angrier just thinking about it. With what was happening to her family, she damn well expected the Gods to show their displeasure!

Of course she was looking at the sea. As much as the Old Gods were everywhere, they mainly saw what their weirwoods and their followers saw. The sea, particularly the sea she was looking at right now, was the domain of the Drowned God. Maybe the squid-fuckers' God was happy that her family was suffering.

If it was, then Arya would happily say that she was glad Jon had burnt Pyke castle to the ground with those squid-fuckers inside. Fuck them and fuck their God. Fuck the Lannisters and their pretty-faced bastard King, and fuck their seven Gods. If none of the Gods were interested in getting justice for her family's sufferings, then she would take that justice in whatever way she could.

Standing from where she'd been sat against a wall, Arya whistled for Nymeria, and her trusty Direwolf followed obediently through the streets of Seaguard's port town. She rather enjoyed how people looked at her, first like she was some piece of meat and then with mounting fear when they recognised her, either by the armour, the large axe slung across her back or by the wolf the size of most ponies. In the end, they all knew who she was and they all knew that she was a warrior.

If they did nothing else for her, Arya would always be grateful to the women warriors of House Mormont for taking Arya underfoot and changing her until she was as much a warrior as either of her elder brothers. She was respected as a fighter, despite her sex, and nobody of note within the entire North would forget about her again.

Right now, though?

Well, right now, she would have preferred to have gone unnoticed. The news had reached Seaguard all at once; Sansa Stark had been raped and murdered, Eddard Stark imprisoned and then freed by a returning Jon, Jon's more extreme measures and the betrayal of Lancel Lannister, complete with a raven scroll from her brother Robb, outright ordering herself and Maege Mormont not to attempt any kind of retribution for any of it − to await his command.

To be honest, Arya would have been okay with her brother's command if it had come with any kind of reason as to why. Sure, her brother was a proven battle commander, but he clearly didn't understand some of his forces if he thought that they would sit on their hands upon returning to their base of operations to find that the world had gone to shit in their absence.

The Mallister keep was a squat structure, wide and strong but not too tall like a few of the other Riverland castles and keeps she had seen in her pursuit of Tyrion Lannister's forces. Right now? Well, right now it was easy to tell that the argument had continued long after she had left to give Nymeria a chance to stretch her legs. − and, if she was honest with herself, to step away from the sheer noise.

Settling Nymeria in the kennels, she steeled herself before handing her large axe, her hand axe and her daggers to one of the guards. Best to keep steel from hand when tempers were flaring. She was admitted to the keep, immediately being hit by the noise like it was a physical force. To be honest, not much had changed since she had last been there; the Mormont men and women were still standing, roaring their agreement with every point that either Dacey or Maege put forwards while, across the room, several Mallister lords, knights and men-at-arms attempted to look 'dignified' by sitting while doing the same thing for a pair of Mallisters (in truth, they were of the blood).

Honestly, the only thing that surprised Arya was that Lord Mallister himself, sat upon a raised dais, hadn't seemed to have moved since the arguments had started. The older man seemed to have a composure that everyone else here, including Arya herself, lacked.

"CRAVENS!" Dacey roared across the hall, her insult met with uproarious shouts of agreement from the Mormont forces, and some Mallister men as well, "You would have us cower behind your walls! We must strike and strike fast!"

The roars on either side were almost deafening to Arya, even as she made her way to stand beside Maege, the older woman giving her a brief nod of acknowledgement before her attention snapped back to the other side of the hall in time for the rebuttal,

"Typical of a northern warrior wench!" came the return shot, something that Arya joined the Mormonts in decrying venomously, "You seek war with such fever but none of that bloodlust helped you find the Imp, now did it?! You couldn't even beat a DWARF on the field of battle! Why should we follow your heir's half-baked plot to raid the Westerlands when you lack the skills required to best a man half the size of even one of your women?"

As much as Arya joined in with the crowd in disputing such claims, she couldn't help but grimace to herself. It was true; the Imp had evaded them at every turn. Of course, it made sense. They were tracking an intelligent enemy through terrain that was unfamiliar and with a larger force that required much stronger supply lines. And the Imp had never actually taken the field against them since their pursuit had begun.

This was probably a good idea on his part, since, by all accounts, his men were bone-tired and outnumbered.

Still, it was a blow aimed to sting the pride of the Mormont warriors, and it had worked a charm. Arya had been part of a few brawls with the Mormonts during her time with them, and she'd begun to get a better sense for when these things were about to kick off. Right now, there was that spark of tension that had heralded all of the others.

Maege had pushed her daughter back to take a step forwards, this time looking to Lord Mallister rather than the Mallister cousins or whatever. It was a change that everyone in the hall but the Lord himself acknowledged by falling silent; he just continued to look down at something in his hand.

"Lord Mallister!"

No response.

"I would hear your word on this subject, not that of some bootlicker! What will you and your men do, My Lord? Will you join myself and my people in raiding our enemy?"

Again, no response.

Maege was beginning to get truly annoyed now, and Arya could feel the change in her demeanour. One of the things that the Mormont Matriarch truly despised was being ignored, and Lord Mallister, his head bowed low, was doing an excellent impression of being fast asleep during an argument that had captured her passion well.

"Will you sit there in silence?" she demanded forcefully, "Will you allow the homes of the former Lord Mallister to go unmolested?"

Oh yeah, the last Lord Mallister had died fighting some of the Imp's forces that had been left behind to make ambushes. Wait. If this was the new Lord Mallister, did that mean…? Yes, the Mallister knights who had died in Lancel's betrayal were likely his sons. But Maege was building up to a crescendo, and there was only one thing worse than throwing the death of his predecessor in his face.

"Will you leave the homes of the men who killed your sons un-raided? Their families remain safe in their beds, My Lord, and you would−"

"I would have you follow the commands of your Lord!" came the thunderous reply, dampening the Mormont supporters and dissenters alike as Lord Mallister had surged to his feet, "I would have you do as you are bade by your liege lord, and I would thank you not to _violate_ this meal in the honour of my sons with your rampant disregard for their sacrifice and devotion to duty! My sons fought to their last breath against our enemies when other men ran – they followed the orders of their commander to their dying breaths, and you would stand here inciting rebellion!"

Okay, so Arya hadn't known what this meal had been in aid of before she had joined the Mormonts at the beginning of this argument, before she'd left with Nymeria. It didn't change too much; what was said was still true, and she still harboured an immense, and growing, hatred of the Lannisters for their acts against her family. But it still left a bad taste in her mouth, knowing that they were using a meal in honour of the deaths of a man's sons to further their own desires.

"I apologise for my words – but not their meaning." Maege countered, stone faced, "What is your answer, Lord Mallister? Will you and your men journey with us to raid the Banefort, the Crag and, potentially, even Castamere?"

The sneer was palpable even from across the hall.

"Me and mine will follow Lord Edmure's command and remain," he declared, nodding to a dozen or so armed guards, "You and yours are no longer welcome in my hall, Lady Mormont. Remove yourselves. Where you choose to camp is your own business; ignore your Lord's commands and march for all I care. Test the hospitality of the Banefort and the Crag, for you'll have none of mine."

Arya didn't think that things would have spiralled this quickly, but she kept up as Maege and Dacey led their supporters from the hall, the few Mallister men who had sided with them in the argument staying firmly where they were. Collecting her arms and Nymeria, Arya saddled her horse and hurried to meet with Maege, who was overseeing the exodus of their forces from behind the walls of the Mallister keep.

She waited in silence as their men passed them, always under the watchful gaze of the Mallister men-at-arms. They seemed a lot more alert than they had been before, that was for sure. They couldn't honestly believe that the Mormonts would turn against their allies, could they? Sure, some of the Westerland forces referred to them as "The Starks' Dogs", but surely they knew well enough that they weren't 'feral'?

Speaking of that title, however; she needed to speak to Maege.

Despite the fact that she agreed with the sentiment, there were orders from the Stark of Winterfell to stand down, and yet, here they were preparing to deploy again. She so desperately wanted to call Maege out on this but held her tongue. Experience with the older woman had taught her that she had little patience for people who demanded things of her.

"You want to know why I am leading my people against the direct orders of your brother."

It wasn't a question, because, to be honest, it was probably the topic on the minds of almost every person in Seaguard. She merely nodded, and Maege silently watched some more of their forces pass before answering, "House Mormont will forever be loyal to House Stark. We remember our shared histories, and we remember our oaths. And we will forever protect the interests of House Stark as they so tightly entwine with our own."

This time, Arya couldn't resist asking, "Then why? Why do we march against my brother's orders?"

Maege turned her horse to leave Mallister keep behind her, "We protect the interests of House Stark; we are not blind in our loyalty. This is something that will strengthen our liege Lords and will force divisions between the North, and Riverlands, and the remainder of the Seven Kingdoms. We will take the gold and silver from the Westerlands, ruining any chance of the North ever re-joining the Seven Kingdoms peacefully, while strengthening our economy with the plunder."

Arya was confused, but she pulled her horse alongside Maege's, just in time for the older woman to clasp a hand to her shoulder.

"I have seen this new generation grow, and I tell you now that the Starks of today are no tamed beasts for Stags or Lions. Your brother is a magnificent leader and tactician. Your younger is sharper than a tack. And you, Arya, are a warrior queen waiting to be born in truth. Hells, even the Snow has the Wolfs-blood of old strong in his veins! House Mormont remembers. We remember serving the Kings of Winter with pride and honour. I would see it happen again… Let my fallen kin have died for something greater than simply punishing a lion. Make no mistake, Lady Arya, I am not alone in wishing to see this."

Dazed, Arya let her anger and thirst for battle guide her along with the Mormonts as they stole into the Westerlands, burning what they could not take and burying several different hauls in the Riverlands before raiding once again. Along the way, though, she couldn't ignore the allure of being a warrior princess, or queen, like the Nymeria of old.

Perhaps it was time for the Kingdom of Winter to be reborn?

Lord Tywin "The Old Lion" Lannister

Lord of Casterly Rock, Shield of Lannisport, Warden of the West and Hand of the King

"The Mountain is dead."

What did the young man want, exactly, for making such a stupid statement? If he wanted a trophy for saying the stupidest thing Tywin had heard all day, then he would simply have one made to teach the boy a lesson in humility. Coming to a man such as him with such a puffed-up chest, believing that he knew something that Tywin Lannister had not known… it was pitiful in the worst possible way.

And yet the man was supposed to be a master tactician, warrior and leader of men.

Honestly, Adam Marbrand just reminded Tywin of his son. The man was little more than a watered-down copy of his son in every respect. Not as sharp with sword or wit, the man relied more heavily on his tactics, and even the blasted creature that was his remaining son was better at the man before him in that regard.

Ah.

It seemed, by the way the young man dared to look up from his position on bent knee before him, that the young man had hoped to gain his attention with his opening statement. A pity that Tywin's lack of more competent commanders meant that he was forced to indulge the man at some point. Of course there was no harm in making the young man stew in his awkwardness.

Moving around the kneeling man, Tywin leisurely filled a goblet with watered-down wine. He made a point of not offering Marbrand anything to drink as he instead carefully placed his goblet upon the table before taking his seat at the head of the table − the only seat at the table, considering it was supposed to be his evening meal and his last chance for peace before he slept.

This was simply something else he could use to make Marbrand squirm if he needed to catch the man flatfooted. Of course, if he ever found himself needing to stoop to such a trick against a man of Marbrand's talents, then it would be time to have the maesters brick him up in a room, for he had clearly lost his mind.

He took a careful sip of the wine before reclining ever so slightly, positioning himself effortlessly into a position that gave the carefully sculpted appearance of a man with little time to be wasted.

Tywin was tempted to dismiss Marbrand till morning but this was a perfect opportunity to make a point. The boy needed to learn that no matter how good he was, Tywin Lannister was better.

"I know," he answered, waving his hand casually to bid the young man to rise, "I've known for quite some time now. Would you care to elaborate upon your statement and conjure up a purpose to your inane babbling, Marbrand?"

The man was angry now.

That was something that Tywin could use; anger had many uses, but stupidity? Well, that was a single track journey off a cliff in terms of utility. All he would have to do was get Marbrand to remember where he was supposed to direct his anger. Certainly, the man was welcome to be angry at him, just so long as he realised that he would never be able to act on that anger towards him without swift, and terrible, retribution.

He had done the same with Clegane on a much simpler scale – wind him up, point him at some obstacle he wanted removed, and then just let him go.

Of course, as Marbrand had so 'thoughtfully' reminded him, both of the Cleganes were now dead. And both men had died at the hands of one bastard from the North. With the two Cleganes, he'd had two excellent dogs; one for attacking, and one for guarding. It had been a rather useful dynamic he could employ, but now both of them were dead at the hands of the same man. If he had been a more paranoid man, perhaps in the same vein as his old friend, then he may have seen a conspiracy in there somewhere.

As it was, Tywin knew enough about the circumstances of both deaths to know that neither had been a plot to weaken him. No, Jon Snow was a man who acted with overwhelming force and brutality; his handling of the Greyjoys had been proof enough of that for Tywin. It was a tactic that Tywin himself had used before, to great effect. Both Castamere and Tarbeck Hall had felt his wrath in such a manner, as had King's Landing itself during the Rebellion.

But the reason why Tywin continued to refer to Jon as "Snow" was the same reason why he hadn't been overly worried about the man going into this war. Because he was a bastard, there would always be a limit on the amount of loyalty he could inspire in men. Some men preferred to think that their Lords had to be higher than them − better than them.

Of course, though, they all shat.

But it was best to attend to his trained man before he started fantasising about rebelling against him. Almost all men held such thoughts from time to time. The trick was ensuring that they knew that those thoughts were known to you.

Even when you had no idea what was going on inside their vacant little minds, Tywin often found that stupid people could 'outwit' their betters purely by not following any logic.

He gestured for Marbrand to continue with an imperious wave of one hand as he sipped his drink with the other.

"War is a balance of fear, skill and daring," Marbrand pressed on, somehow having found the spine to lock gazes with him, "Your skill is unmatched."

A lie.

Tywin Lannister knew his own strengths and weaknesses. He was a strategist; he could tell when the best time to go to war was, how best to push large offenses and how to navigate predicted encounters to ensure the best outcome. Unfortunately, he was, at best, only an average tactician and a middling warrior.

He knew this, and it was why he surrounded himself with people who covered his weaknesses while allowing him to remain in command.

He allowed Marbrand's flattery to pass without comment.

"I am more daring than any man in your ranks," Marbrand boasted, for that was all that it was, before continuing, "But The Mountain was our source of fear. Our men and the enemy alike… they feared him more than most mortal men fear anything else. He was like a demon from the Hells when he set his mind to it, and we need that, my Lord!"

Once again, Marbrand stated the obvious.

But rather than draw attention to that this time, Tywin glared down at the younger man with extreme focus. He noticed the man's tiny flinch when he caught the look fully in his eyes as he had foolishly locked gazes with Tywin earlier.

"You forget yourself, Marbrand." He chastised the younger man, his tone severe and the chewing-out very clear in his voice, even though he hadn't raised his voice at all, "I allowed you to council me out of recognition of your service to me. Do not mistake your station, boy… and do not raise you voice to me again without cause."

It was a simple, unassuming, sentence, but both men knew that the unspoken threats were more powerful than those that had been spoken or implied thus far.

His underling took a moment to compose himself, and Tywin was gracious enough to allow such a moment of collection on this occasion.

"My apologies, my Lord… I forgot my audience." He apologized with eyes locked firmly on the ground as he bowed his head slightly. "What I'm trying to say is that we need to decide what we're going to do about the fear that has been robbed from us. Smallfolk and soldiers alike feared The Mountain and feared you more for holding his reigns. Jon Whitewolf took a lot of that fear when he began a campaign of terror of his own, and killing The Mountain has cemented that."

Interesting.

It seemed that Marbrand may not be as useless as he had first imagined. He made sure to keep his gaze locked on the other man for a long time before sipping at his wine and gesturing for Marbrand to continue, to actually make a suggestion rather than just list the problems that they were facing because of the Snow.

Bolstered, Marbrand continued as ordered, "I say we focus our northern-most forces into a force to take Moat Cailin," he suggested, "Let us capture Whitewolf and use his broken body as proof that none can stand against you. It will ruin the effect he has had on our men, and we can use it as a chance to play up the terrifying nature of Crakehall. Or…"

There was hesitation, and Tywin was already tired, both of this conversation and in general. He glared at his underling for a few moments until Marbrand pushed forwards, "Or we play up how terrifying Lord Tyrion is."

Oh, now… now this had some potential.

Tywin made no secret of how he despised his youngest progeny, and most of the realm seemed to see him as the ugly, spitefully witty, creature that he was. Why not play that up further? As much as Tywin hated it, without Jaime around, Tyrion was next in line to inherit Casterly Rock and the title of Warden of the West.

Despite his misgivings, Tywin could admit to himself that Tyrion was probably intelligent enough to actually rule the Westerlands without being a total embarrassment – a good place holder until the next generation of Lannisters produced a ruler more suitable. He would do better than Tywin's own father certainly. But if he pushed for him to be more ruthless, perhaps planting the idea that he would only support the creature's claim if he was bloodier, then it would be possible to have someone else groomed for the role instead − a more palatable choice for the masses and the other lords.

Enough for them to accept the strangeness of him elevating his nephew above his own son.

These were thoughts for when he was alone, however. Marbrand would just be a distraction if he stayed any longer.

"Leave me," he commanded simply, "Begin preparation to take two thousand men north to rally with our forces for an assault on Moat Cailin. Lancel will have full command, but you will be his second."

A promotion, since Crakehall and others would assume they would be granted the position above Marbrand due to his age. The man recognised it as such and bowed his head, doubtlessly about to thank him before Tywin cut him off, "You have much to prepare, Marbrand."

It couldn't have been more of a dismissal if Tywin tried.

Now alone in his chambers, Tywin allowed him a moment to himself, a moment when he was allowed to just ease himself into rest. His shoulders sagged, and he eyed the wine thoughtfully for a moment before putting it down and moving to his bed instead. As he disrobed, Tywin noted with displeasure how many times his aging frame creaked and popped with such simple movements. None of it hurt, but it was all mounting proof that this? This would be his last war.

And Gods be damned if it wasn't the war that he was going to be remembered for.

The entire realm was splintered, and he was arrayed against opponents of both merit and skill. His victory over the Starks and their allies would let talk of Lannister supremacy ring out throughout the Seven Kingdoms and perhaps further. All he needed to do was keep himself together and utilise the talents of the men around him to cover his own weaknesses until the Starks showed their own weaknesses.

Gods, he missed Jaime.

In his current host, he had almost no one he could entrust with a task of any magnitude. Kevan had become emotional and led a disastrous assault on Moat Cailin when it was fully defended, leaving him with a shattered 'northern' host and a corpse for a brother. His sister was busy looking after the Westerlands themselves, and her husband was essentially a hostage now that the Freys had sided with their liege lords, the Tullys. His remaining son was a lecherous coward who hated him. Who else was there?

Lancel?

As much as he appreciated the skills Lancel possessed, there was still an awful lot the boy needed to learn.

No, Tywin decided as he lay awake in bed and allowed himself to be the old man that he truly was, he missed his son, and there was no one who could take his place.

Lord Eddard "The Quiet Wolf" Stark

Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North, Former Hand of the King

Spending time with Edmure and Robb in close proximity let Ned actually see what his late wife had meant when she'd mentioned that Robb looked like her brother. Indeed, the men were very similar in build and features both. Both had the Tully colouring in hair, and their heights were near enough identical.

Considering how much he had looked into inheriting features of fathers during his time in King's Landing, Ned might have been worried if Robb didn't have piercing grey eyes. Those were the eyes of a Stark, almost as well-known an indicator of the lineage as a serious demeanour or Ice.

Of course, right now, both men were angry, so Ned did his best to remove himself from his musings. He supposed that he might well be getting old if he was spending so much time getting lost in thought nowadays… or maybe he was just doing what he could to keep his thoughts from wandering into much more unfriendly territories, like the fates of Sansa and Jon.

That was two of his children that the Lannisters had brutalised now. One hadn't been lucky enough to survive the encounter, but, by all reports, Jon was still alive. The reports went on to state that his son was in a terrible condition, but Ned could live with that. His son, or secret nephew, had done much for their cause and pushed himself hard for their victory − probably past the point where it was even remotely healthy for the young man if he was honest with himself.

And look at that; he had been wool-gathering again.

He mentally shook himself out of the headspace he was in, instead examining the room to see what else had changed since he'd drifted into thought. His good-brother and eldest son were stood on opposite sides of the table that held the war map. Both of them were leaning forwards, faces flush with anger as they gestured and pointed angrily at the map before the both of them.

Ned looked at the token that represented Arya and the Mormonts, now positioned somewhere just past the Banefort, well into the coastal regions of the Westerlands by now. The information had recently arrived and was one of the reasons for the argument between the two younger men. Of course, with how badly Edmure had taken the Blackfish's death, and the ever worsening condition of Edmure's father, Ned would go so far as to suggest that the movement had little to do with how angry he was.

Sometimes, a man needed to rage against, what, he felt, were the injustices that the world had doled out to him. Most times, you had to content yourself with being able to unleash your anger out on another target instead. Ned didn't like to think about it, but the man was dead, so he felt comfortable in thinking it within his own mind… He had hated the Kingslayer, more than he had hated Rhaegar and even more than the Mad King himself − not for breaking his oaths, as many suspected, but because he had snatched away Ned's burning need for revenge.

Robert had been as a brother to him, so he could accept his friend killing Rhaegar; there had still been justice and revenge there. But he had always hated that Jaime Fucking Lannister had taken The Mad King's life, mere fucking moments before he had arrived in the throne room.

Ned could admit, now, that his hatred of the Kingslayer had been mostly down to himself cursing the fact that he hadn't been fast enough to be the one to end that monster.

He understood where Edmure was coming from, emotionally, and his concerns about retaliatory raids held some merit. Unfortunately for Edmure, though, it was, as Robb was beginning to outline, a tad too late.

"I will not ask you again, Uncle!" roared Robb, slamming a palm down on the table between the two men, "You will stand down. I know that the Lannisters are in your lands, and I understand your concerns about further raids, but there is little they can do to your lands that they are not currently doing regardless!"

Edmure wasn't cowed just yet, however.

"How easy that is to say for a boy who stands nothing to lose from such actions!" His temper flared brighter than Robb's own. "These are not your lands, nephew – you're not the one who has to explain to them why they must suffer more atrocities because a stupid girl decided she wanted to charge ahead for glory and conquest!"

Ned stood abruptly, catching the attention of both men, and his fists slammed onto the desk, shaking it and ensuring that neither of them could look away from him. Rather than launch immediately into shouting like the younger men had, Ned held each of their gazes for a long, silent, moment before deciding to break the silence, "That stupid girl is your niece, who just learned of the death of her sister, her grand-uncle and the mutilation of her half-brother." He reasoned, eyes locked with Edmure as he spoke at a tone little above usual speaking level, "She is distraught. She demands some form of revenge. Can you, of all people, not see where she is coming from, good-brother?"

Edmure looked like he was about to snap a retort but stopped himself. Ned wasn't angry, despite the slip, and it seemed to be what caused the young Tully man to deflate slightly. After a few moments, where Edmure shared a look with an equally weary-looking Robb, Edmure nodded, looking down.

Moving around the table, Ned stood in front of his good-brother, placing a firm hand on his shoulder and meeting his gaze again.

"He was a fine man, your uncle," he declared, firmly holding onto Edmure so that he couldn't move or begin to deny that this was what it was actually all about, "I fought beside him during the Rebellion, against the Greyjoys and even against the Three Daughters. I'm happy to say that I knew him and I will miss him as a dear friend. But Edmure… what would he tell you, right now, if he were here?"

That got a watery little smile from the man whose anger was rapidly being replaced by the sorrow that had caused it in the first place.

"He'd probably tell me to stop being such a pussy and get back to the fight," he admitted with a weak chuckle, which Robb mimicked. Ned smiled and nodded to the younger man, his good-brother, who met his eyes with a slightly less troubled expression, "To stop bitching and make the best of it… Aye, I get what you mean. Thank you, good-brother."

Ned nodded and stepped back to where he had been before, catching Edmure clasping arms with Robb before leaving the small solar that had been lent to them. With the exit of the young Tully, Robb visibly relaxed for a moment, moving over to the far wall, resting his forehead against the smooth stone.

Father and son stayed in companionable silence for a while longer before it was broken.

"She's really done it this time."

Ned, slightly amused, didn't answer until he had sat back down at the table. Pouring out a small measure or watered wine, he sighed, running a hand through his facial hair with a grimace.

"It does seem like the Mormonts have taught her well in the ways of combat… but her strategic thinking does leave much to be desired."

Robb cast him a disbelieving look that told him that this wasn't going to be a conversation with Robb Stark, his son. No, this was going to be a conversation with Robb Stark, commander of the Northern Forces. He supposed it was always going to be, considering they weren't discussing Arya's tendency to befriend butchers' boys and the like.

They were talking about a portion of their forces that had over-extended themselves in a campaign that ran directly counter to the explicit orders of their commanders and Lord. Worse, they were now having to commit resources to the campaign via Seaguard, in case the front the Mormont forces had opened were to close, leaving them cut off from reinforcements.

And leaving Arya trapped in Lannister hands.

Once his son had torn some bloody strips off of Maege for the campaign, Ned made a mental note to do the same for needlessly endangering his daughter. Sure, being in battle endangered her as well. But at least then there was a much lower chance of her being trapped in some Lannister minion's keep.

"This goes beyond her training and fostering, father," Robb argued, pacing a little bit as he did so, "She, and the Mormonts, received my orders, read and discussed them with the Mallisters… and then deliberately ignored them to march off into the Westerlands! Gods alone know what they were thinking."

Ned hummed a little bit, still idly playing with his facial hair as he responded, "It may well be that they believed they could raid the Westerlands and return with extra funds for the war effort," he argued before pointing out, "Though that would be something Maege came up with, not Arya."

Robb ran a hand through his hair, gesturing to the map, specifically the areas surrounding Moat Cailin and a token in Lannister red that was supposed to be Lancel and Crakehall.

"It's more than just one case of a commander ignoring orders… Without those extra fighters, the Mallisters don't have the strength capable of pushing the advancing Lannister forces into the trap that I had devised for their crossing of the river at the Twins. Or before." He grimaced, moving some of the tokens around the map a little, muttering as he tried to salvage the operation as much as possible, "My plan is falling apart."

It was a bit of an exaggeration, but, unfortunately, not as much of one as Ned would have liked. The plan had been to send forces from Derry and Seaguard to shadow the Lannister remnants as they moved on Moat Cailin. With the two forces behind them, they would attack when half or more of the forces had been across the Twins. The Freys were then charged with barring the gates back, giving the forces stationed at Moat Cailin enough time to lead their own attack, smashing into the Lannister forces like a hammer blow smashing them into the anvil of the Twins.

It would have been a rather resounding success, had it actually worked.

"You didn't actually tell the Mormonts anything of your plans, though," Ned noted with a drink of his wine, "In fact, you've been keeping your plans within only a small circle. You should trust your commanders more, Robb."

His son cast him a rather venomous look.

"Because that worked out well for Jon."

Ned blinked, stunned as if struck for a moment before he regained control of himself and just glared at his eldest son. No matter what stress his son was under, throwing that back in his face was not acceptable, and he refused to leave his son with the impression that it was. After only a few moments, Robb sighed, looking away.

"I'm sorry, father. That was… uncalled for."

Sighing deeply, Ned rubbed at his temples with his fingertips.

"You're doing a remarkably good job, Robb," he admitted, sharing a small smile with his son, "The lords are talking; they believe that claiming independence is only a matter of time. That it is only a matter of time before the Starks are Kings again, as we once were. Only this time with lands far beyond the Neck as well. I have been asking much of you, my son, because I know for certain that I am no King." He held a hand up to stop Robb's protests. "For years now, I've done my best to run the North, and I've done a decent job. We didn't all starve… but I am a second son, never meant to rule the North, and it shows. I had to learn so much the hard way, and it's let me know my limits. You, though, son?" He smiled, ignoring the way Robb seemed to have begun an attempt to make his skin match his reddish hair. "You have all the qualities of a good King. If we win this war… I think our position under the Iron Throne needs to change. Just think about it, son."

Robb nodded dumbly and left, not saying a word. He supposed he had probably rocked the boy's world, so he was inclined to let him. After all, Ned had never been too strict, and he had just dropped some incredible information onto his eldest. And it spoke well of his son as well; better he spend time in silent contemplation than start pushing to be named King sooner, like a certain blonde bastard.

Ned, now alone in the solar, just sat there, looking around him tiredly. He wasn't even that old, but he was beginning to feel it, the strain. Who knew how long he would last as King? Probably not long. Besides, all he wanted to do now was grow old enough to see all of his remaining children happy.

If he could just have that, he'd die a happy man.

Ser Lancel "The Loyal" Lannister

Commander of the Northern Lannister Front

"And he thinks that he gets to be _my_ commander? Not on your fucking life! I won't stand for a green boy leading me and mine! You hear me, boy?"

Lancel stared down at the Crakehall, doing his best to avoid blinking as much as possible. He knew it was a slightly unnerving experience from being on the receiving end of such looks from both Jon and his uncle Tywin. Of course, his was probably closer to the 'potentially violently unhinged' look that Jon got when he wanted to scare his knights than he was to Tywin's 'your presence offends me' look.

Maybe he would have time to perfect it soon?

But that was neither here nor there. It was doing a fairly decent job of unnerving Crakehall, but he knew that the big man had a lot more ego and bluster than could be defeated by the powers of a stern look. Instead, he merely waited as the bigger man got a head of steam, doing his best to discredit Lancel in the eyes of the other commanders in the tent.

Honestly, Lancel wouldn't have minded Crakehall being in total command of the forces if it were not for the man's stupidity. If the man had been capable of devising a strategy to take Moat Cailin, then Lancel would have let him lead until such a time as his leadership began to steer them wrong. But the simple fact of the matter was that Crakehall was a dim-witted fool and would just send their men charging against the walls − walls that Lancel knew had been reinforced by The North.

And there was the other crux of the argument for his own leadership: local knowledge. Lancel knew more about the Northern forces than any of the other commanders here, which was saying something, considering many of them had fought alongside the Northerners during the battles against the Three Daughters. But apparently, many of them had clung to their beliefs that they were superior to the Northerners, just because they were richer.

Some of them had some respect for how the North went to war with such aggression and savagery but not enough of them for Lancel to be happy to let them have a greater hand in leading this leg of the campaign, which meant that the dubious honour was his alone.

That probably meant that he should stop the rather obvious display of rebellious thoughts from Crakehall. The man wasn't even attempting to hide the fact that he held nothing but contempt for Lancel's leadership. He wasn't the first to do so, but most of the others had kept it quiet for fear of earning his ire.

His response to being mocked and questioned hadn't been what the lords were used to, having served under Tywin Lannister for so long, but that was fine. If he wanted to have discussions rather than dictate, that probably suited them just fine. But the problem was that some of them were taking the permissions he had given them a little too far. Crakehall was the worst offender, and, quite honestly, Lancel was beginning to get tired of it. Oh, sure, he could take all the second-guessing that Crakehall could dish out without being bothered by it at all.

But why should he have to?

He was a Lannister of Casterly Rock and a knight of more renown, good standing and skill than this wretch of a man could ever hope to be. And whereas Lancel was the eldest of his siblings, Lyle Crakehall, the 'legendary' Strongboar, was a middle son.

And he wouldn't be missed all that much.

Lancel reached down as Crakehall was building up a head of steam, carefully undoing his gauntlet as the guardsmen in the tent tightened their grips on their weapons in preparation. Timing it perfectly, Lancel pulled his gauntlet free just as Crakehall turned to him again, having turned his head to address the other lords in attendance. Lancel struck the knight across the face with his gauntlet, stunning the man, before kicking at the side of the man's right knee, bringing him down to one knee.

With a mighty kick, Lancel had the knight on his back in the dirt.

Throwing the gauntlet down in the mud by the large knight's head, Lancel held his sword to the downed man's throat, ready to pierce the man's neck in an instant. The other lords, some of which had moved to complain, stopped when the guards made to draw their weapons. Lancel noticed this, but it was all out of the corner of his eye; he was continuing to stare down Lyle Crakehall, but now he was doing it with his sword hovering above the man's exposed neck and the proud knight firmly on his back.

Taking a page from his uncle's book again, Lancel didn't move, did his best not to blink or ever appear to breathe, merely staring down the length of his sword at the knight who had questioned him one time too many. Now certain that everyone in the tent understood that this was entirely his murmur's show, Lancel pressed the tip of his sword against the man's skin with deceptively little force.

"Pick up my gauntlet."

He didn't raise his voice, and he didn't take his eyes off of Crakehall, so he got to see how the man first stiffened at the sound of his voice before his eyes flashed darkly with anger and his muscles tensed. Lancel didn't blink, he moved the tip of his sword slightly, a small trickle of blood being drawn by the small motion. He didn't speak because the message was clear. Of course, even when a message is clear, someone will be stupid enough to question it.

It seemed that Crakehall was not done being insubordinate just yet.

"You think, just because your name is Lannister, that I'll put up with this shit? I am a knight of the realm and a man of more battle experience than you'll ever have in your life, boy. I am valuable to Lord Tywin – he won't stand for you killing me, so this threat is empty."

Crakehall made to get up but paused when he felt the blade dig deeper into his flesh, merely from his own action to make to rise. He looked rather surprised when he met Lancel's gaze again.

While Crakehall was beginning to look a little bit more concerned, Lancel was doubtlessly looking as impassive as The Stranger right now. Or he thought he should be, at least; he was doing his best not to express any emotions on his face as he kept Crakehall's gaze.

"Pick up my gauntlet."

The command was clear and without a hint of emotion; like it was something so simple that compliance wasn't questioned at all. Lancel was aiming for the same kind of imperious, yet somehow bored, tone that Tywin had used to command the servants of Casterly Rock whenever they were holding a feast. And that was the kind of effect he was trying to get going here.

Lyle Crakehall had to understand that he was here to serve at Lancel's pleasure.

Crakehall had some deeply simmering rage behind him right now, if the look in his eyes was any indication, but the knight did actually seem to have some semblance of intelligence. The knight fumbled around blindly with his hand, his gaze still locked with Lancel's until he grasped the gauntlet. With an arm that shook, probably from restrained rage, Crakehall held the gauntlet up for Lancel to take.

Moving the tip of his sword away from his 'foe's' neck, Lancel accepted the gauntlet from the large knight. Holding the gauntlet in hand, Lancel removed the tip of his sword from its position by Crakehall's head. There was an audible sound of relief from the other lords as Crakehall grunted and moved to get up again, this time without a sword impeding his advance.

Without warning, Lancel struck out with his gauntlet again, sending Crakehall back to the ground with a small spray of blood from a cut caused by the gauntlet hitting his cheek. Nodding to his guards, Lancel strode from the command tent as Crakehall swore and struggled and six guards grabbed him and dragged him out after Lancel before lifting the large knight between them slightly and swinging him for a moment before tossing him forwards.

The assembled forces naturally formed a circle around the two of them, Lancel still in spotless golden armour and Crakehall now laid flat on his back in some thick mud.

Once again, Lancel's blade pressed against Crakehall's neck, causing the man to freeze again rather than rage physically as he had doubtlessly been planning to do before that. Once again, Lancel stared down his rebellious knight before dropping the gauntlet beside him. Crakehall looked at him with undisguised disbelief, having taken in the crowd of foot soldiers and lesser knights alike.

Disciplining a knight like Crakehall was something that could be done in polite society, by those whose station was higher. But disciplining such a knight in such a public way? It would bring great shame to the Crakehall name.

Exactly as Lancel intended.

"Pick up my gauntlet."

His voice wasn't raised, but as soon as he had started to speak, the assembled men had fallen deathly silent, so as to better hear what he had to say. His voice carried in the silence, and he had been careful to enunciate carefully so his meaning wasn't lost on either Crakehall or their audience.

The knight glared up at him hatefully and refused to move.

Lancel's eyes narrowed ever so slightly, and he lifted his sword from Crakehall's neck in response. Only when he saw the man's muscles un-clench did he flick his sword, expertly cutting the man's brow just above his left eye, the sword returning to hover over the knight's eye. Crakehall swore loudly at the cut but grew stiff and silent again when he looked up from the tip of the blade at Lancel.

For his part, Lancel tilted his head to the side ever so slightly but didn't say a word.

Without any further complaint, Crakehall reached out and grasped the gauntlet. To his credit, he only hesitated for a second before raising his hand and offering the gauntlet back to him. Keeping his eyes on his rebellious knight, Lancel accepted the gauntlet with one hand… before throwing the gauntlet back to the ground, a few yards away from Crakehall's reach.

He raised the tip of his sword so that he was more than an inch away from cutting the man's eye out.

"Pick up my gauntlet."

The rage was beginning to boil up inside Crakehall as the crowds began to mutter; some brave souls even jeered as the proud knight laid there in the mud, forced to pick up a younger knight's gauntlet from the same mud. With barely restrained rage, Crakehall made to stand before Lancel nodded to his guards again.

Lancel made a production of slowly sheathing his blade as the guards dragged Crakehall to his feet before bodily picking the struggling knight up again. This time, they made sure to get a good swing to build up momentum before sliding the large knight across the mud towards the gauntlet.

Seeing the proud and mighty Strongboar sliding along the mud on his front was enough to turn most of the mutters to jeers and the jeers from before into full-on laughter. Lancel silenced them with a simple wave as Crakehall, surrounded by Lancel's guards, glared at him from his position on his hands and knees.

There was a man who truly despised him.

Amusing it was to Lancel, at least, considering how he could also see the growing uncertainty and fear in the man even from this distance. Lancel was tearing down his fearsome reputation in public, in front of his own men, and no one was speaking up in his defence. Everyone here was under Lancel's complete control, and it was time for Crakehall to finally realise that also included him.

Crakehall snatched the gauntlet from the ground and made to stand, before being pushed into the mud face first when the guards stepped on his back hard.

Lancel let them keep the proud knight struggling in the mud for a moment, moving a little bit closer for convenience before stopping again, arms folded in a forced casual manner before he gestured with a small wave and Crakehall was allowed to take another breath that didn't include a small mass of mud.

"Crawl."

For a moment, Lancel honestly didn't think that Crakehall would move at all, but after a long stare-down, the large knight began the slow crawl forwards.

It was painfully slow, but Lancel resisted the urge to look around at the crowd or show any signs that he was getting annoyed with how long it was taking. Instead, he just waited until Ser Lyle Crakehall, The Strongboar, was on his hands and knees in front of him.

With his guards surrounding them, Lancel allowed himself a small smile, leaning down to hold out his hand.

"Fit my gauntlet."

Crakehall didn't look up from the ground, and that was fine by Lancel. The thoroughly shamed, but no doubt furious, knight slowly began to fit Lancel's gauntlet in place. He waited patiently until the task was completed before grabbing hold of the knight by the hair with his other hand, forcing him to look up at him.

"Now… pay very close attention, Crakehall. My family _owns_ yours." He spoke quietly as this was something for just the two of them, "With Jaime dead and Tyrion a wretched dwarf, I stand before you now as the man most likely to assume the position of the Warden of the West. I am so far above you, the knighted second son of a lordly house, I would need a Myrish eye to look down on you."

He pushed the man's head away from him contemptuously.

"And just in case you think you can act on that bubbling anger, just remember this…" He leant in close and whispered, "I'm far nicer than cousin Cersei. And who holds your baby brother's life in her hands again? Oh, yes… I remember. You touch me, and she'll do terrible things to your little brother. Your big brother is currently in Uncle Tywin's camp, under close eye as you'd expect. And, lest we forget, you yourself are a second son. Expendable."

Lancel patted Crakehall on the cheek mockingly before turning on his heel.

"Insult me, question my command or otherwise fuck up? I'll make you choose which of your brothers dies."

With every step he took from the shamed knight, Lancel could feel the weight on his shoulders. It was all well and good to command the obedience of a man like Crakehall, but it was draining in a way that he hadn't experienced before.

Was this why his Uncle Tywin had looked so tired those times he'd come across him talking privately to his father?

The answer was probably yes but was, overall, irrelevant.

He would bear the weight with grace, poise and purpose for his family regardless.

Brandon "Bran" Stark

Commander of Moat Cailin

"Brother Gared, we are not having this conversation again."

Bran really wanted to ignore the man, but he knew that he couldn't. Not only was he the commander of Moat Cailin, and this man and his fellow's guests, but when a Green Man from the Isle of Faces spoke, you listened. It didn't matter if you were a follower of the Old Gods or the New; you listened when they spoke.

So Bran would listen, but he knew what would be said.

While it had been something of a shock when Gared and ten of his brothers had appeared at the gates of Moat Cailin, their purpose had been something Bran had divined rather early on in their stay. They had tried to impress him with their insights into the future, doing their best to show that they knew the right path forwards. But while the Greensight was something that Bran still had a healthy amount of respect for, he had experienced enough of it to know that they were nowhere near as proficient with it as they claimed.

For starters, they needed to take special 'tea' in a group to enter a collective dream state in order to see anything with any clarity.

They had given him vague hints in regards to certain ongoing, or near future, events, but they had been of such a quality that there was very little actionable information to be found. That would have impressed others, but Bran had been working with Jojen and Meera Reed since he had come to Moat Cailin, the Reed siblings acting as points of contact with the mysterious Crannogmen that scouted the surrounding area.

And Jojen had the Greensight.

And, as Jojen had admitted when Bran had come to him a few nights after the arrival of the Reed siblings, Bran's bizarre dreams were less dreams and more glimpses of the future. Bran himself could see the future in his dreams, and he was already more proficient with it than Jojen.

And in much better health, it had to be said.

Needless to say, it had been somewhat of a shock, and later annoyance, when the Green Men revealed that they knew about his natural talents and had an incline of his progress with the development of his dreams − which led to their pitch.

"Lord Brandon, you must come with us!" pleaded Gared, the grey-haired, moss-covered, man held back from entering the forge area by Meera, who had her spear in hand but was making no threatening moves, "You don't understand your destiny, Lord Bran… The Old Gods themselves have chosen you! Would you defy the Gods?"

Bran glanced at Jojen at this, and the older boy paused for a moment before shrugging a little bit and going back to looking around the forge for what they required. He guessed that meant that Jojen didn't have any insight into whether or not he would be best served by going with them and joining the Green Men on the Isle of Faces.

All that after abandoning his family, his name, his friends and any input that he might have into the course of this war.

"If the Gods themselves want me to join you on the Isle of Faces then they can send me a sign themselves," he declared bluntly, giving Gared a rather heated glare, "I will not leave my family, or my people, to be overrun by the Lannisters and their puppets, not on your word alone."

He was being rude and he knew it, but Bran didn't much care; he was busy.

Qyburn was up there right now with Jon and had doubtlessly started the procedure before their agreed-upon time. The man was a menace, and that conclusion was just from some of the things that Bran had dreamt of the man doing in the past. He was honestly rather scared of trying to push his dreams into seeing into the man's future. The man had such darkness in him that he was honestly still surprised that his Greensight had shown him, in no uncertain terms, that the ex-maester was needed in order to restore his brother.

And his dreams turned to dark places when he'd 'asked' his sight to 'see' what happened to his family, if Jon was left as he was.

Hells, it turned to dark places after he was restored, and that was bad enough. But even the coming darkness was something that could be defeated. For some reason, despite never being the one who led the fight against the darkness, Jon's health was a turning point in the future. It hurt to think about it too long, and whenever he tried to 'see' the enemy that they needed, Jon restored to fight, his sight stopped responding, and he woke in agony.

Honestly, Bran probably believed in the Gods more than the Green Men themselves, convinced as he was that his sight was linked to their will. Jojen was amazed he had such direction of the Greensight, and the Green Men seemed to think he was some kind of near mythical figure.

None of them had ever thought to 'ask' to 'see' different things, and his sight told him that it would be a bad thing to tell them to try.

Having finally found the steel stylus that he had been looking for, Bran was eager to actually get to work, but it seemed the dear leader of the Green Men wasn't done.

"Lord Brandon, you must understand; we are the sign from the Gods! We are on a mission from the Gods!" He tried to enter the forge but stopped when Meera planted her spear in the ground in front of him with a raised eyebrow. Bran couldn't help the smirk at the interaction, even though he was still looking for the other styluses that the blacksmith said he had made. "You must come with us and achieve your destiny – you must become the Green Lord!"

And there it was: the final point of their incredibly simplistic argument.

According to them, he needed to come with them and learn more about the Greensight because he was set to become the 'Green Lord'. As far as Jojen knew (after corresponding with his father), their Green Lord was supposed to be a King of the First Men who had trained as a Green Man before ascending to the throne.

However, it was a children's tale, even to the Crannogmen and the Reeds.

And considering the Reeds seemed to believe that the Children of the Forest were still alive in the world, Bran found it rather amusing that the Green Men seemed to have crossed a line that even the most 'eccentric' family in the North deemed foolish.

"Bran!" called Jojen as the sickly boy came round to the front of the forge again, holding a wrapped package, "I've found the gold, silver, iron and copper instruments."

Happy as he was that they were nearly prepared, Bran took the package from Jojen, keenly aware of the heavy sheen of sweat on his older friend's brow.

"Thanks, Jojen. Now go lean your head out the forge or something," he suggested to his friend as he continued his hunt for a suitable sized hammer for their delicate work, "I'll not have Meera poking me full of holes just because you stayed around the fire too long and fainted."

Having had time to adapt to his weakness, Jojen accepted the advice without complaint, though Bran cursed as Meera's look to her brother allowed Gared to get into the forge area. Groaning quietly to himself, he gave Meera's apologetic look an understanding smile before bracing himself for the whirlwind of faith that was Gared.

"Lord Brandon… I know you see the future; we all know this."

Bran was glad none of his guards were here at the moment, because 'all' didn't encompass as many people as Gared would like, he was sure.

"But we have seen this; you will become King of the First Men and lead the North and its people to greatness!"

Having found a hammer delicate enough for the precise work they were going to be doing, he gave Gared a long sideways look as he bundled all of the items together in a wooden crate. The blacksmith would surely miss it, but having it so close to the forge itself was a fire waiting to happen, so Bran didn't feel too bad about taking it.

"And let me guess…" he muttered before speaking up, "If I don't, then the North is going to be covered in darkness, taken by those who care not for its people and customs?"

Gared made to speak but Bran didn't care; his patience was at an end.

"I've tried being a gracious host, Brother Gared, but my patience has limits. I am in the middle of something that changes the future for better or worse, and you are currently in my way." He glared up at the man, cursing the fact that he was still not a man full grown. "How about you spend less time trying to 'see' how to get me to agree to go to the Isle of Faces and spend more time trying to figure out why my sight seems to think we're all going to die if we don't fix my brother and find something called Dragon glass? Make yourselves useful to the realm."

Okay, so he had said something incredibly rude, but Jon was almost definitely under Qyburn's knife at this point, and his sight had urged him that if he was too late then it would be worse than if the restoration had never been attempted.

Meera and Jojen fell in step beside him as he pushed his way out of the forge, Meera carrying two buckets of wood chips: Ironwood and Weirwood. Of course, they'd had to be very quiet about taking the wood from the Weirwood trees, even though they had seemingly been granted permission from the Gods based on how the notoriously tough wood yielded easily to them.

They moved in silence, only speaking to command the guards in the area to vacant the area. Entering the room, Bran was only able to keep from killing Qyburn because he knew that doing so would actually make things worse. Instead, he took a deep breath and laid the tools out as Qyburn tugged at nerves and did other things to Jon's body that he didn't know the names for. As Meera started a fire with the woodchips from both mystical trees, a practice Bran had to show her from having seen her do it in the future, Bran turned to Jojen, who waited for a moment before heating the steel stylus in the flames and handing it to Bran, having wrapped one end in thick leather.

Taking a deep breath, Bran remembered what he had seen himself doing in his dreams of the future and began to inscribe with the steel, burning and tearing the runes of the First Men into his brother's flesh.

His brother screamed and thrashed in place, eyes still closed from whatever Qyburn had given him. He could tell just how much this was hurting his brother right now, and he knew that it would only get worse.

But, Gods forgive him, his brother pain was nothing compared to the alternative.


	38. Chapter 37

AN – I may lose some readers here and potentially gain others. I recognise that views on the subject matter vary wildly within the fandom.

Thanks again to my sounding board Hadian and beta-reading from BrokePerception.

AWAKEN US.

Floating was a sensation that Jon hadn't often found himself in.

He had been raised in Winterfell, and, aside from the hot springs, there wasn't really any body of water to spend your time completely suspended in. His visits to the coastal regions of Westeros had often been bloody and violent affairs as well, so he hadn't spent time in the sea. All of this meant that it was pretty easy to tell that he wasn't actually awake, since he was in a situation that defied his experiences and didn't seem to be linked to anything he could remember.

The pain, however, was almost maddening in its sheer presence. It wasn't so much a strong sensation of pain either, simply a pain that was all-encompassing, like ants gnawing on every available inch of his skin, his muscles and his bones at the same time. It was something that neither intensified nor lessened with every passing second; the pain was simply _there_.

Gods, how he wished that wasn't something so fucking familiar to him that it almost convinced him that he wasn't dreaming.

Of course, as he seemed to become more aware of his situation, he realized he was also naked and he didn't remember having been naked before he met with that sadistic ex-maester. Either that was another indicator that he was asleep or it was proof that Qyburn was into molesting his patients while they were unconscious. Thankfully, the continued floating assured him that he was still sleeping, because otherwise he might just have started to panic a little.

As more of his senses seemed to unfurl, as if a dog shaking themselves slowly awake, Jon realised that not only was he naked and floating, but there was literally nothing touching him. So he was floating somehow, but there was nothing surrounding him, like water, to make him float. It made a certain amount of sense, considering what he was seeing.

Seeing was a strange term to use, and not entirely correct either.

Being able to feel his own body, Jon knew that his eyes were currently closed and he couldn't actually force himself to open them. A brief moment of panic was settled when he realised that, even with his eyes closed tight, he could see his body easily and his body was as it had been before his injuries.

This was followed by another, slightly longer, moment of panic where Jon reasoned with himself that because he could feel his eyes were closed, it meant that he still had eyelids and this wasn't Qyburn's idea. Removing someone's eyelids was sick, but he could honestly see the old healer doing something like that and then saying he did it to learn more.

He wasn't being charitable to the healer, he knew, but right now he was floating in a featureless black void, able to see only his own body, seeing that through closed eyes and all of it with an all-encompassing pain that threatened to smother him.

So yeah, he wasn't feeling the need to sing the monstrous healer's virtues.

Was it strange that he was more interested in mentally insulting Qyburn than trying to figure out what the fuck was going on?

It probably should be, but Jon had vague recollections of his time recovering from the poison he'd been hit with after fighting Victarion. He remembered the situation only in flashes, but he remembered the whole experience being really distorted even when he was living it. Logic hadn't really been key back then, so he didn't think it would be key here.

Qyburn had poisoned him after all.

And besides any and all strangeness, Jon was rather liking this dream so far. Sure, it was a little bit freaky, but once he got past the surreal nature of the dream, he was able to really enjoy not having certain areas of his body feeling like they'd been dipped in molten iron. The all-encompassing pain was very, very, distracting and uncomfortable, but he would take that over the previous levels of pain any day of the week.

He also didn't have to worry about falling over like a fucking cripple whenever he tried to walk if he just existed as a floating body for a while.

It would probably be back to the same situation when he woke up after all. Despite agreeing to give Qyburn's methods a try, Jon didn't hold out much hope for his quality of life to improve at all. He'd seen wounded soldiers being rendered massive burdens on their families with much simpler, and less debilitating, injuries than his old collection. What little help he had was being carefully hidden behind a lot of cynicism.

Less chance of being hurt when waking up screaming from having moved slightly in his sleep.

"Oh, you'll still wake up screaming."

The silence of the dream was shattered by a distinctly female voice, the accent clearly from someone who'd spent their life around Winterfell. He would recognise that accent anywhere, even be able to pick out the difference between people who lived in Winterfell and the people of the Wolfswood. This woman's voice obviously belonged to someone who'd spent a long time around Winterfell.

Was it someone he knew? Or was his dream going to make up a mostly new woman from memories of other women?

"As if you have the imagination to come up with someone like me."

As suddenly as he had become aware that he was currently dreaming, he could see someone else. His eyes were still not open and the darkness surrounding him was still immutable, but just as he could see his own body, he could see someone else, floating in front of him. Distance was hard to judge with only two bodies in a featureless expanse of blackness surrounding them, but the woman was close enough that he was able to pick out all of her features easily.

Her face was a study of rather sharp angles, the cheek bones strong and defined, curving only slightly down to a pointed chin that only began to round towards the end. The skin was pale and the hair dark. Her lips, they were a light pink bow shape that twitched into a small smirk even as his observation continued.

She was rather thin, he was able to see it rather easily since she seemed to be about as clothed as he was; which was to say she didn't have a stitch of clothing on her at all. The paleness to her skin seemed to be natural. He slowly detached his gaze from small, but pert, breasts and continued down her smooth stomach, noting how her muscles were easily visible as light lines in her flawless skin: strong but feminine, if he had to describe it.

The further down his observation went, the more he began to understand about the woman floating opposite him.

Either she was experiencing her moon's blood or she had recently given birth. Almost every inch of her body below her navel was covered in a mixture of blood and something else; the way it had splashed against her inner thighs and legs let him know the source of the blood. This wasn't a wound on another part of her body bleeding onto her lower body; this mixture had been expelled from her body itself.

Dear gods, it was only when his gaze returned to her face that he noticed the similarities to someone he did actually know.

With her lips quirked in a smirk, a single dark eyebrow raised and stormy grey eyes sparkling with mischief, she looked just like Arya. Of course, there were differences, too. Despite what father had said to reassure Arya when she was younger, his sister was not as beautiful as the woman in front of him. She looked like he imagined some of those "Ice Queens" from old Nan's stories looked, to be honest.

It began to fall into place the longer he stared blankly at her through closed eyes.

A beautiful woman, not too much older than him, who looked like a more beautiful version of his sister Arya.

More evidence began to mount up as he suddenly knew what to look for. Her stomach was stretched slightly now that he could see it. Or was it? Whenever he looked, it was different. Sometimes, he looked and noted that it was flat, smooth and somewhat muscled. Other times, he looked and the recent pregnancy was obvious. Was this another dream thing? Like seeing without opening his eyes?

Fuck it; that was really not the most important part of this dream now.

His mouth was, unlike his eyes, completely under his control. Taking a moment to gather himself, Jon was only slightly surprised to find that he had been only somewhat successful when he actually spoke.

"M-mum?"

His voice caught.

But gods damn it, he couldn't bring himself to care when he saw the way her face just… lit up. It was like all the hard angles and edges of her face smoothed out and her skin seemed to positively glow as she smiled, light pink lips dancing away to reveal remarkably perfect teeth. She seemed to shine brightly in the darkness they were in, even though no light actually pierced the gloom. His earlier description, of her being like a beautiful queen, seemed to pale in comparison now that she was smiling at him. Now? Now, she was as beautiful as any depiction of any goddess he'd ever even heard of.

 _Mother is the name for God on the lips and hearts of all children._

It was an odd thought, a stray thought, but she reminded him of something that Sam had quoted to him from some old collection of poems, the line rocking through him as he could swear he heard Sam's voice repeating it in his mind. In his distraction, Jon almost missed it when her hand came up towards his face, the distance between them now suddenly much less, with no indication that there had ever been a change save for how she was suddenly _there_.

He almost flinched away from her hand as it came closer to him before recognising the gesture for what it was.

"Jon. My boy…" _-_ _Her hand touched his cheek, and he was suddenly somewhere else, his body jolting from the shook of having gone from floating in the blackness to floating above his mother, who was now resting in a birthing bed, expression strained and pale, touching her very pregnant belly tenderly as she whispered,_ "… my little lord."

Distance appeared between the two of them, almost as if the dream had reacted to his shock and put the distance between them again as he struggled to gather his bearings from having experienced something that flew in the face of even his poisoned fever dreams. The fuck was that? Did he just see something from his mother's past just from a touch to the cheek?

Considering it had removed any lingering doubts of her identity from his mind, Jon wouldn't be surprised to find that this woman had used witchcraft to push the memory onto him.

The distance was gone again, and her soft, warm, hand cupped his cheek. He flinched, expecting another memory pushed onto him, but relaxed slightly when all he felt was the strange comfort that came from her gentle touch. Was it something inherent into a child to help them recognise their mother? Only the Gods could make something like that feeling.

Jon swallowed thickly.

"How is this possible?"

Her laugh was a melody, and he would have listened to it for days if he could.

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you, my boy. You don't believe."

Somehow, Jon knew what she was referring to when she said that he didn't believe; she was talking about the Gods. And she was right. As much as he used them to curse and swear, Jon didn't believe in the Gods. He'd paid them lip service because it was expected of him, but he had always thought that the world continued to exist entirely because of men, that any Gods to have existed had died long ago, maybe with the dragons, maybe with the magic and maybe further back than either event.

It made no difference. He didn't believe.

"I could believe…"

And he truly believed that he could. With his mother as some kind of incentive and motivation, Jon was certain that he could believe in the Gods with all the reverence of a Green Man or priest. If it got him his mother, he would hang his own fucking entrails from a Weirwood tree like the men of Skagos did to their enemies.

Her laugh was different, an edge of sadness in her tone as her gentle grip on his cheek tightened slightly for a moment. The storm in the grey of her eyes dulled slightly.

"It wouldn't make a difference. I'm not here to stay, my little lord; I am here with a purpose that I must see done."

He felt like he was going to cry.

The Gods were truly as cruel as some said if they had brought his mother to him in this dream just to taunt him with that which he could not have. Perhaps this was the consequence of not believing in them? Cruel bastards, the lot of them. He gritted his teeth, feeling the ache in them increase as his teeth. Because, of course, when everything hurt when you were at the mercy of the 'Gods', it meant that literally everything hurt.

Jon wanted to leave now, but at the same time he ached, longed, to stay right where he was and stay with her. He knew it probably wouldn't be able to happen, though; either this was a vision from Gods that knew of his feelings towards them or it was some even more terrifying fever dream from Qyburn's concoctions.

He flinched a little bit as she moved, both hands cupping his face now. Forcing himself to look her in the eyes, Jon matched her stormy grey eyes with his own.

"I don't have long, Jon. If I don't say it now, then I don't think they'll let me say it later…"

Damn the Gods and damn this woman for making him tear up like this! She was some spectre! She wasn't his mother; either she was the dead given leave to speak or she was the deepest parts of his own mind. Jon had no desire to listen to either. Or he thought he hadn't anyway; his inability to speak out against her right now lent credence to the idea that he had a deeper desire to just stay here.

"I am so sorry… I wasn't there for you. And your uncle… my dear grim brother… he threw his honour aside and turned you, my little prince, into something dark and twisted."

Jon reached up and grabbed hold of her wrists, pulling her hands from him, much to her surprise. Grip tightening, Jon leant in closer.

"I made myself this way. I took my life and shaped it as I saw fit."

He pushed her backwards, the distance beginning to grow between them as he squashed his rolling emotions deep down inside. Glaring across the distance, he could have sworn she was beginning to look a lot less like his mother. Already, her eyes were glistening. From all the stories of his mother, Jon knew that she was a fearsome woman who would have smacked her brothers if they'd even insinuated that she had cried.

"I didn't have to become what I am; my true father made that very clear. But I chose it. I saw my life stretching ever onwards – never once escaping the shadow of my birth! Bastard of a respected lord or bastard of a stupid girl and her mad, flowery, prince! I chose differently! I chose to walk the paths I've travelled and I refuse to allow you, spectre or figment of my imagination, to question me!"

There were tracks of wetness down her cheeks now, but Jon was paying more attention now as well. She didn't look like a woman who was crying, aside from the tears, as her face was almost entirely expressionless. Instead, she was smirking.

And the tears looked rather dark, like something was mixing with them.

"Oh Jon… my boy… Yes! You're nothing like your father, are you? No… you're all Stark. I told them! I told them you would be!"

It wasn't a trick of his mind anymore; her tears continued to flow even though she was wearing a wide grin that matched the one that Arya got when she was being mean to Sansa and getting away with it. And they were dark – they still ran down her cheeks, but they were growing sluggish in their motion. What the fuck was that? Jon was damn sure that it wasn't just tears anymore.

His 'mother' seemed to be mercurial enough to shift between the required emotions rather well if her current performance was any indication. She'd gone from being very convincing in condemning his choices to… well, to crowing to someone about how she had 'told them' about him.

He wouldn't have thought that there was someone to tell considering their current location.

Either this was, by far, the weirdest dream he had ever had or he was still meeting a messenger of the Old Gods. To be frank, one meant that he was in the presence of the ethereal, and he'd been rather disrespectful. The other meant that this had been cooked up by his sleeping mind, which meant that there might well be more shit like this lurking in his head.

Both thoughts were unsettling.

"What madness is this?"

Her grin twisted further, and Jon began to notice that the dark liquid was now beginning to flow from both nostrils and her ears as well. The fuck was that stuff? The fuck was going on?

The distance shifted in a noticeable lurch, his entire body jolting slightly as she collided with him, going from some distance away to literally perching on his chest. Jon didn't have time to react before she grabbed his head, fingers digging into the sides of his head like the talons of an eagle as her thumbs held his eyelids open, forcing him to look into her deranged eyes.

From this distance it was impossible to ignore the substance dripping from her skull at every available exit – it was a deep red, like blood, but flowed across her skin like it was sticky. The previous trails were solid already.

It was with a jolt, his mother's eidolon literally shaking his head, that Jon realised that she didn't seem to be entirely in control of herself. Already, he could tell that her eyes were glazed, like a drunk who had had his fill about an hour of drinking ago. If she was a living being, he might have worried about her being drugged. As it was, he was almost entirely convinced that she wasn't the spectre of his mother anymore.

The substance that was leaking from her was something he'd seen before; it was the sap from a Weirwood tree. And just like the Children of the Forest believed that their shared Gods could see from the trees, Jon would have waged Red Rain, in that instant, on the Gods controlling her.

" **JON OF THE STARK LINE."**

Good Gods!

Her voice had once been lovely to listen to, a gentle honey that wormed its way over to you and seduced you to her thinking with sweet whispers. Now, though? Now it was like a chorus made of a thousand, or a hundred thousand, voices all screeching at the same time. Where were the melodic voices that the stories and legends spoke of? Of voices carried on the winds? This was horrifying! His ears were left ringing from something as simple as a single sentence, each part of the phrase spoken just slightly off by a thousand voices. Was he hearing his Gods speak? He wished he wasn't, for it was harsh, it was grating and he didn't think they were even close to being done with him.

The grip on his skull increased in strength, the points of her nails breaking the skin as the creature that appeared to be his mother, held him in place to listen to the address of the Gods.

" **WILL YOU SERVE?"**

When he had first felt the pain that had encompassed his form, Jon would have given anything for it to be confined to just a few places of his body. Now he could feel all of the pain rapidly leaving the rest of his body, all of it pooling and combining in his head. He tried to scream but couldn't breathe for the pain that threatened to split his skull into a million tiny pieces. Somehow, he needed to get it to stop! He needed to have it stop! He couldn't stand this!

He needed to be free! He needed to escape! He needed to be away, he needed to be free from pain, he needed to get them to let go, he needed to do something, anything, everything, all of it, none of it, and oh-gods-why-did-it-hurt, why-did-it-hurt-like-this, why-wasn't-it-getting-any-better, oh-gods-oh-gods-oh-gods-he-wanted-to-just-die!

Somewhere along the line of his thoughts scrambling themselves, Jon felt something familiar. He felt strong, immovable, fingers take hold of his ear. Opening his eyes, Jon stared up at his mother, red sap of the Weirwoods coating her entire face now as she stared down at him.

" **SERVE."**

Jon managed to scream this time, a monstrous sound as his ear was torn from his head, just as the Mountain had done in life. The pain that had accumulated in his head, oddly, lessened with the sharp pain of his ear being torn away − enough for Jon to realise what they wanted from him. Before he could answer, however, he felt it as the pain began to pool in parts of his body very familiar to him.

His scream continued, the pitch changing, as flesh was torn from his body and parts of it were torn asunder as the Gods inflicted his real-world wounds on the body that had been healed by merely being part of this dream state.

It was as the layers of his flesh peeled away that Jon was able to force himself to answer, even though he knew that the Gods could tell his answer already.

"I will serve!"

The pain didn't stop, but it didn't get any worse either, and, at this point, it was a tiny blessing that Jon was more than happy to receive, no matter the reason.

Twisted into a mockery of beauty, his mother's face moved closer to his own, tilting to the side at an angle just beyond what looked natural. She didn't blink. Hells, Jon was reasonably sure that she wasn't even breathing.

" **YOU ARE OURS."**

It wasn't a question, but Jon couldn't stop himself.

"I… I am yours."

The pain dimmed noticeably as he stared up into the eyes of the face his Gods had chosen to break him to their will. The message was clear to Jon; they had the power to give him back his strength, and they had the power to take it all away and more besides. He would live at their convenience because they had a purpose for him.

And either he would fulfil his purpose or he would fail.

" **AWAKEN. AWAKEN US. LET US SEE. MAKE US SEE."**

Images burnt into his mind, and Jon screamed, his vision flashing between white and black as the face in front of his flashed between his mother and someone else. Each flash confused him more, and with each one, the pain flared and flashed white hot through his veins. The other face began to become more defined as the sight of his mother's face began to lose definition.

Sam.

The other face was Sam, and he was worried. Jon screamed as the flashes began to last for longer, each flash bringing with it faint sights, scents and feelings that he hadn't felt the last time. He could see Sam more clearly with each flash, could feel restricting cloth around most of his body, and he could damn well smell the stink of blood and corruption. His frantic need to be free from both the pain and the restrictions meant that he was rapidly beginning to understand where he was from the increased level of sensation.

Pushing Sam away, Jon tried to sit up from the bed, lunging upwards with a guttural sound as he did so. Sam fell away, and Jon was able to toss aside the furs that had covered his body and its tighter layers of cloth. To his left, Sam grabbed hold of him as, to his right, Qyburn prepared another one of those injections of his.

Jon felt his blood burn as the injection hit his bloodstream, causing him to roar, his throat hoarse and scratchy as he surged forwards, breaking free of both healers and sending himself on a collision course with the wooden floor.

Groaning, Jon pushed himself to his hands and knees, pain lancing through each of his limbs like fire along the wick of a candle. It was like someone had poured wildfire into his veins instead of blood and then lit a fucking match! Growling, Jon didn't try and form words, but he instead welcomed the embrace of the tiredness that had seeped into his bones from the pain and the energy expended in making such an explosive escape from his bed.

" **MOVE."**

Jon screamed as the face of his mother, still tilted and covered in the red sap of the Weirwood trees, began to rise up out of the wooden floor. He staggered to his feet, startled as she rose until only her feet had yet to emerge from the wood. It was only when white wooden roots began to grow from the wood, linking with her legs, that Jon realised that the spectre of his mother was beginning to transform.

Her pale skin began to peel and flake away from her main body, her flesh being replaced by the pale bark of the Weirwood tree that she was becoming.

The roots began to grow, reaching out through the floor towards him, prompting him to almost fall backwards in his haste to comply with the command. Sam and Qyburn were approaching, but neither of them seemed to react at all to the woman who'd come out of the floor to begin turning into a fucking tree!

Either he was mad or she was for his eyes only.

Jon fled the room, barging his way through the door and taking the steps three or four at a time as he bounded down them, wanting nothing more than to escape the phantom that seemed to be hell-bent on giving him a fucking break-down. Even as he was flying through the tower, dodging out of the way of camp followers, servants and soldiers, he could feel the presence just behind him. It felt like it was right behind him but he did not dare take a look in case he was right.

Instead, he just ran, past the planning and mapping rooms, past the guards at the base of the tower and into the restored courtyard of Moat Cailin, ready to disappear into the swamp if he thought it might help.

It was only when he looked up that he stopped, the feeling of something following him disappearing as he saw the Weirwood in front of him. Seeming to all the world like 'just another Weirwood tree', Jon's head rang with the memory of pain as he looked at the face carved into the trunk of the mighty tree.

Two things that Jon was absolutely certain about? The tree had not been there before he went for his 'surgery', and the crowd of frightened onlookers let him know that it was a recent, and frightening, addition. He knew, whispers of thoughts in his mind adding it up, that he had been led to the tree.

Staggering forwards, Jon finally took stock of himself as the crowds parted with murmurs when he approached the Weirwood.

His body was weak, and it ached − that much was unchanged. His entire body was bound in bandages; they were the only thing keeping him from being naked right now, too. Reaching up with two trembling hands, Jon tore at the bandages around his head, marvelling at the fact that, although weak, both of his arms were responding again. Neither of his legs had given out and none of the tremendous pain from walking had bothered him at all during his flight from his room.

Instead, he felt exhausted and he felt much thinner, but he felt like a man who had run a mile in armour, as opposed to a man who had lost a duel with the Mountain.

Having finally freed his head from the bandages, Jon was a little bit put out to realise that his facial wounds were still present. Namely, he could feel the wind playing against the wound along the side of his head, and he knew that he only had one ear. Still – you didn't look miracles in the face and spit at them.

No, he reflected as he came to rest in front of the Weirwood's face, you stared them in the face… and opened their eyes.

The face looked like it was angry and in pain, its face scrunched and its eyes closed. That… that wouldn't do. Wetting his lips, Jon fell to his knees in front of the Weirwood tree, one hand placed on the bark.

"Fetch…" He paused; the first word had come out weak and strangled. Mustering himself, he forced his voice to obey. "Fetch me my sword!"

There were shocked exclamations as people began to realise who he was. Rather than address them, Jon just waited patiently until he heard the large, heavy, footfalls of someone he knew very well. Looking up, Jon noticed that his old friend looked incredibly pale but was holding Red Rain out for him to take. He managed a small smile for Gendry.

"Thank you, my brother."

Drawing his sword, Jon paused for a moment before stabbing the Valyrian Steel into the eyes of the Weirwood repeatedly, shouts and cries ringing out as he 'defaced' the symbol of their religion. Only when he had made enough progress did he lay his blade aside and take hold of the wood still covering the eyes. With a firm pull and a loud grunt of effort, Jon tore the wood free of the tree, and the Weirwood's eyes opened.

Like a stopper on a bottle of wine being pulled free, opening the eyes came with twin gushes of warm red sap.

Throwing the wood away, Jon stared into the face of the Weirwood, and it stared back, its face covered in red and the pained expression overwritten by anger with the opening of its eyes. He'd torn its eyes open, but it didn't matter; it was alive and it could SEE. The Old Gods could SEE them here again.

He could have sworn he felt something like approval in his gut before he began to fall backwards, the world falling away from him as his body gave up and collapsed under the exhaustion.


	39. Chapter 38

Convalescence

Jon felt better than he had done in quite a long time, physically, so he was a little bit annoyed that he was being commanded by his younger brother to hold off on any training until the dog and pony show that Bran had cooked up.

To be fair, he realised that it made sense, but that didn't mean that he had to like it at all.

Though his body appeared to be fully healed, he had lost some mass and his body was slower to react, his instincts dulled from having nothing to test them against. As much as he wanted to track Gendry down and have himself put through the wringer, Jon would comply with Bran's suggestions.

It didn't stop him from pouring over the maps set up in the briefing room while he waited to get it over with, though.

He traced his finger along one of the tributaries of one of the many rivers of the Riverlands, specifically one that ran up close to the Twins. It would make sense that any Lannister forces wishing to force open the "gates of the North" at Moat Cailin would travel by waterways as much as possible. Such a body of water would allow them to carry their supplies much faster than usual, allowing the supply train to be close at hand even with the men marching hard.

Of course they would still need to cross at the Twins – House Frey would hardly have been able to charge such tolls on their bridge if an army could just bypass them entirely after all.

Reaching over to a small raven's scroll, he re-read the contents from the Twins and thought about what he could respond with. While House Frey was infamous for being 'late' in their support of their Lord Paramount, relations between the Lords of the Crossing and the Lords of the North had grown slightly less tense with more Freys venturing North for their fortunes rather than South in recent times.

The only issue with relying on House Frey was that they had blood ties with House Lannister, which one would think held more sway over Lord Walder than the opinions of some of his sons and grandsons. It hurt a little that he didn't think he could count on his late friend's family to come to their aid, but now, more than ever, he understood that men put their families ahead of their bonds of friendship.

There had to be some good to come from Lancel's betrayal after all.

It was his hope that he be able to take all of the pain from the betrayal and build himself back up stronger for it. Now that his injuries were no longer the most pressing issue, he should be able to push himself further in other ways. Of course, he wouldn't deny that his drive partially came from a desire for revenge against the man himself.

That it would help the war effort to see the young Lannister dead was just a way he could push for the man's death without much opposition from the Northern or Riverland Lords.

On the subject of Riverlords in his thoughts, however, Jon looked up from the maps sprawled out in front of him to see Samwell reading a rather long raven's scroll that had not long since arrived. His friend was frowning rather deeply at whatever was in the message. All Jon knew was that it was a message from the master of Seaguard, Lord Mallister.

Hopefully, it was good news relating to some reinforcements that they could expect to counter the Lannister host that was quickly approaching the Crossing. While Robb and their father's army was engaging their enemies in the Southern and Eastern Riverlands, the only major forces remaining in the Northern Riverlands were Seaguard and the Twins, the Blackwoods having had their ancestral first taken by the Lannisters and then sacked upon the minor campaign to retake Raventree Hall. With the Blackwood forces now stationed at Riverrun and the Brackens focusing their efforts South, the logistics of getting reinforcements were looking rather grim.

If the Freys declined to face the Lannister host due to blood ties or, Gods forbid, joined their host, then the defenders of Moat Cailin would be hopelessly outnumbered even if the Mallisters could lend them their aid.

On the other hand, if both of the Houses granted their support, Jon was confident that they would be able to at least beat back the Lannister host heading their way. If they were quick about it, they might be able to trap them on the Southern side of the Twins and smash them against the strong river currents so there would be no chance of a routing army leaving behind roaming bands of fighters.

As had happened previously.

"Lord Mallister has received battle plans from Lord Robb. Apparently, your brother and father are still in Riverrun while Lords Bolton and Glover range further East against Lord Tywin in Harrenhall."

Ah.

Jon moved a few figurines across the map, moving the markers for Robb and his father back to Riverrun while keeping some tokens closer to Harrenhall to signify the Bolton and Glover led forces. Tapping the token at Seaguard, he glanced up at Samwell and asked,

"And what orders have they been provided with?"

Sam made sure to check the orders again before relaying them.

It seemed that Robb was hoping to keep the Lannister host from fragmenting, just as Jon was hoping himself. So far, the plan was for the Mallisters to march their forces towards the Twins. If the Freys sided with their rightful Lord − probably Lord Edmure by this time, considering Hoster Tully's health − then the Mallister forces were to reinforce their position and force the Lannister host to flank East, hugging the border with the Vale, and add many more days to their march to Moat Cailin instead.

The brief outline of the plan in the scroll was that Jon was to then take the brunt of the Lannister assault and hold until the Mallister and Frey forces sallied forth and broke the host against the walls of Moat Cailin and the marshes of the Neck.

Jon jotted down a quick note to be sent to Lord Reed; House Reed would be called upon to harass the Lannister forces before they could arrive at the walls of Moat Cailin and make the siege much harder on the Southern forces.

He didn't much like defensive warfare, but Jon knew well enough that his own personal tastes didn't matter a lot when it came to strategizing. It made sense for them to use the terrain and the repaired walls of Moat Cailin to their advantage as charging their enemies would leave them vulnerable against the greater numbers of the Lannister host.

Of course, Bran would doubtlessly make an argument against an offensive push while the men were still so Gods' damn uncertain about him.

"Sam." He called for his friend's attention, sighing and rubbing at his recently trimmed beard, "We have any reinforcements from White Harbour inbound?"

His friend flipped through leaves of parchment as he waited for the response. Honestly, he could do with some good news at this point.

"No."

And there was the denial of his simple wish.

"We are expecting some supplies from them, however. Estimates from the maester of White Harbour say it should be enough to see us through a siege of several months."

A siege? Jon could already feel his bones itching at the thought of being trapped in the walls of Moat Cailin like a rat, waiting with ever-bated breath for the Lannisters to attempt to storm their defences. He recalled stories of sieges and shuddered. Stannis Baratheon he was not; Jon didn't think he'd be able to stick out a siege for too long without having to be talked out of attempting to sally forth and break the encirclement.

Still, though, if needs must, then he would be glad of the supplies from White Harbour and the time that they would buy him and his men. He doubted that the maester of White Harbour had included the people of the surrounding town in his calculations, however, and that worried Jon a little. It made sense, in a purely logical sense, to turn the people away when the siege began, but Jon knew that his family wouldn't hear of it so neither would he.

He wasn't about to bring shame upon his family when there wasn't any need to; they'd manage to support more mouths to feed with some effort.

Both Jon and Sam noted Gendry's near silent entry.

Sam collected the message that Jon had jotted down, along with some others, and made for the raven's roost, leaving Jon and Gendry alone in the room. Jon did his best not to let his nerves get the best of him, but he realised that there was no avoiding this, no matter how long he stared at the maps and tried to pretend that he didn't know why Gendry had arrived.

Crossing his arms, Jon turned to face his larger friend with a frown.

"So… I guess it's time for the witch hunt, eh?"

Gendry snorted in amusement, leaning back against the wall.

"I wish it were a witch hunt," he japed in return, "Trials for witches are quick. You? Well depending on who you talk to, you either summoned one of the Old Gods, wrestled with The Warrior or declared a crusade against the followers of R'hollr. Or Rohlar. R'holla? However the fuck you say it – the red God with the fire and the sexy priestesses."

Jon couldn't hold back the snort of amusement that came, unbidden, from listening to Gendry's rambling. The man was annoyingly hard to be cross with. And he had missed his friend during his time being bed-ridden as Gendry had had to pick up his duties in addition to his own. Despite Jon having been healed for a few days now, this was probably the first time he'd had chance to actually speak to his friend.

"If I don't end up hung from the Weirwood tree by supper, promise me you'll kick my arse on the training grounds?" he shot back, leaning back against the table as he relaxed a little in the presence of his friend, "Been on 'light duties' for far too fucking long now."

His friend just laughed, a deep sound that managed to echo even though the room usually did not allow such.

"I should fucking say so!" he agreed with a rising smirk, "I'll help you get back into the things that really matter: fighting, fucking, drinking and eating! 'Course I don't suspect you'll join me and the lads down at Ol' Kates' fiiiine establishment for that second part."

Usually, Jon would probably agree with his friend's assessment.

He had still yet to lay with a woman in all his years, despite knowing that a few had had their eyes on him through the years. And it wasn't like he wasn't interested either – his time surrounded by Prince Oberyn's bastard daughters had been brief, but each of them had left an impression to be sure. Truth be told, he'd always just set those thoughts aside in favour of some other task or goal. It had always been something that he'd put at the bottom of his priorities considering how much shite he'd had to deal with since coming of age.

Maybe it was time to change that?

There was an unmistakable lull in the war, so it wasn't like he would be distracting himself at a crucial time. Right now, all that remained was the preparations and the waiting. Others, more interested and well suited, were seeing to the preparations, and Jon could only spend some of the time training after all.

"Eh… I might just surprise you, actually," he admitted, looking up to the ceiling so his friend was less likely to see the light flush that had come to his cheeks at the admission, "Thinking I might take you up on that offer. Been a blushing maid long enough, eh?"

There was silence for a moment before Gendry's laughter shattered it. It was expected, but Jon would be the first to admit that Gendry slapping his knees was perhaps a little too far. Was it really so far-fetched that he was a man who had urges as well? Evidently, Gendry thought so.

"Oh… h oho… and what, pray tell, has brought along this change in you, my friend?" he teased, still finding it hard to keep from bursting back into peals of laughter, "Your Old Gods put some steel in your forge?"

Jon decided, at that moment, that being interrogated by concerned soldiers, knights, nobles and peasants was better than continuing this line of conversation. Stepping away from the table, he made for the door and Gendry made to follow him but Jon wasn't content to leave this episode without having the last word at least. He waved his left hand in a 'so-so' motion.

"Not like I could take it in hand like before."

Capitalising on his friend's surprise, Jon patted his friend on the cheek with the left hand, an action that had Gendry spluttering and moving away. Jon just chuckled to himself and quickly left the map room, barely noticing as one of the two guards on the door fell into step behind him and he began to descend the stairs into the main hall of the central keep they were currently in.

Having a guard following him had, according to Bran, sent the right kind of message to those who worried about his intentions.

Jon managed to catch a glimpse of the guard as they rounded a corner, noting that his hands were held rather too tightly on his halberd. His grip on the long weapon would be his downfall if Jon did actually decide to engage him in combat for some reason – it would delay him from reaching the much more useful dagger by his hip. In the close quarters of the stairwell, the halberd would be simple to move to one side and the dagger would be his for the taking. Then it would be simplicity itself to bury the blade between the gaps in armour and send the man crashing down the unforgiving stairs to his doom.

Maybe it was thoughts like that which had people on edge about him?

It made sense, he supposed, but it wasn't anything he hadn't done before. Having a vague idea about how to approach killing people he met was something he'd started doing a few years ago now. It could well be that people were noticing that trait now that they had more reason to be suspicious of him.

Entering the main hall, Jon was unsurprised to find it absolutely packed full of people of many different social standings. His knights stood in a cluster on one side of the room, miscellaneous Riverland knights across the hall from them. Peasants were closest to the doors, forbidden from sitting at the four long tables that had been set up for the minor nobles who'd been nearby enough to be included.

Bran sat at the centre of the main table on the far wall, having a commanding view of all within the hall and the best position in relation to the large fire pit in the centre of the hall. No one else was seated at the main table, but Jon took note of Qyburn and the Greenmen behind his youngest brother, though Meera Reed stood closest to his brother as a stoic protector.

Mutterings and random shouts died out before being reborn with greater fury as he arrived, guards peeling away from the walls to push the mass of peasants, merchants and others out of his way as he was led to his own position for this whole affair.

Jon stood close to the fire, facing Bran with a guard flanking him on either side. He stood at attention before his brother, trying to ignore the heat to his back and the weight of the stares of those present. They seemed to be behaving themselves at least – as best they fucking had. For all the appearances, Jon was not on trial and he would not have this become one by the will of a mob of confused men and women.

Bran gestured imperiously with a hand, and silence fell, though perhaps a touch slower than it probably would have done so for either Robb or their father. As Jon ruminated on the respect his little brother was shown by so many, the proceedings appeared to begin.

"Ser Jon Whitewolf, thank you for joining us today," Bran began with a small nod of acknowledgement, which Jon returned a touch deeper, "Recent events have made this gathering essential. People from all walks of life would put their questions, their concerns and, indeed, their pleas to you."

Pleas?

The first two, he could understand, but he wasn't sure that kind of pleas people were going to have made of him. This was getting weirder by the second, but far be it for him to get in the way of Bran's little production here… He remained silent as his brother continued.

"A census has been taken and the most pressing questions and concerns have been written up, to be presented by myself," he declared, his gaze sweeping across the whole hall as he reminded them, "No man or woman has the right to interrupt these proceedings as these questions represent the collective will of all in attendance and yet more besides."

There were some mutterings about that part, mostly from the Northern nobles in attendance who were accustomed to being able to speak their mind at any time during addresses from their Lords. These were short-lived, however, and soon content silence returned as Bran made a show of leafing through several leaves of parchment.

Why cause a scene against your Lord's command when there were so many questions yours was likely to be asked anyway, right?

"Ser Jon, please tell us, in your own words, what you experienced after you lost consciousness during the treatment you underwent."

Well, they were moving right on ahead now, weren't they? Not that he minded at all, for Jon would be rather glad to explain what it was he had experienced after falling unconscious. He shuffled a little bit and took a few breaths before explaining what he remembered of his time in the darkness with the voices.

He explained the darkness.

He explained the vision of his mother – but did not mention who she was.

He explained how something seemed to have taken control of the vision of his mother.

When it came to describing what had happened once the Gods had taken control of the vision of his mother, Jon found himself suddenly having to swallow against a thick lump in his throat. Taking a breath, he managed to force it out.

"It was the voice of the Gods, I think. It commanded me to serve and punished me with pain when I hesitated to answer."

The explosion of noise was expected – he'd just openly declared that he had been spoken to by the Gods. Some were calling him insane, others a prophet and more still were demanding to know which Gods he had spoken to. Bran made to call for silence, but Jon rounded on a septon who had pushed to the front of the crowd to one side, one who had very loudly demanded he explain which of the Gods had spoken to him.

"I don't know," he answered, loudly enough for his voice to cut through the din, "I saw the sap of the Weirwood tree gushing from my mother. I heard their words echo inside my head and rattle my bones. But as to which Gods they were… I cannot say. I can suspect, and I do, that the voice was that of the Old Gods, but how would you expect me to be certain?"

His question seemed to surprise enough people to allow him another moment, which he ruthlessly took advantage of to continue.

"You ask me to identify the Gods through an avatar in a dream… you may as well command an ant to tell the difference between two Freys during in a blizzard!" he announced, addressing everyone, "All I know is that Gods spoke to me that day. And I only know that from the feelings I had when listening to their words: unbridled fear and awe. I believe they appeared to me through a vision of my mother because they are so far beyond comprehension in their true forms! So, in answer… Gods spoke to me, but it is beyond me or you to know for certain which ones."

That seemed to be enough of a theological conundrum for the septon and many of the faith of the Seven, as well as the followers of the Old Gods. Doubtlessly, the followers of the Seven would see the Weirwood sap as their Gods communicating with him in a way he was sure to respect. Those who followed the Old Gods would likely see the sap as a sign of their own Gods.

In the end, the question from the septon had been, in Jon's mind, stupid. Others would decide for themselves which deities were true enough to speak to a man and grow a tree in moments; just as they always had.

Bran waited a moment before order was restored with another motion of his hand.

"You mentioned that the Gods bade you to serve – one question asked by many here links quite well with this." Bran seemed rather invested in this question himself. "What did they command you to do?"

The mutterings were very loud this time, and Jon could plainly see that Bran wasn't the only one interested in knowing what had been demanded of him. He could understand the burning curiosity, of course.

"If you are expecting to hear me push for a holy war, seek down a monster to slay or proclaim the second coming of the Long Night, then I am afraid I must disappoint you, good people. They asked but two things of me!" He held his hand up with two fingers extended for the benefit of those further away. "They asked that I serve them. And they asked that I 'make them see' by carving opened eyes in the Weirwood tree. Nothing more and nothing less."

Muttering abound once more.

He couldn't blame them their concerns in relation to this comment, however. Jon himself was concerned about just what his service would be to the Gods – they hadn't seen it fit to give him any indication as to how he was to serve, and that left him open to be commanded to do anything they saw fit at the time. The only thing he could do was put his trust in the Gods and hope that they saw the world as clearly as their followers would like them to.

If they were the Old Gods then surely they would only command him in the defence and betterment of their followers?

This was one of the reasons why Jon had entertained the idea of forgetting about the circumstances of his recovery with the aid of a few good hits to the head and strong alcohol; all it did was bring up lots more awkward questions that he didn't want to have to think about. Bran was the 'thinker' of the Stark children, Jon had been more than happy to content himself with tactics and battle. He'd had a goal that required those things in spades after all, so he'd thrown himself towards it in reckless abandon.

Perhaps this was a sign that he needed to better himself in other ways as well? Bran seemed to have recognised that this whole event would soothe people's fears as it was dressed up as a 'trial'. Hells, he'd recognised the growing tensions and made moves to counter them almost immediately. Maybe it would be a good idea for him to get acquainted with politics? There were many a variety of threats to his family, and only some of them could be combatted with sword and axe in hand.

Calm was enforced by the guards again when Bran motioned to be allowed to speak.

"My good people… it appears to me that my brother has been returned to full health by a mixture of the medical and the divine. All that remains is to determine his intentions," he declared, to some vocal agreement, before addressing Jon directly, "Ser Jon Whitewolf. With your renewed health, what do you intend to do?"

There were right answers and wrong answers to that question.

The right answers would see him return to the kind of life that he had happily had before his ill-fated battle against The Mountain. Of course, the wrong answers would see the people either hate or fear him. In the end, the only answer that Jon could give was the truth, and he would have to hope that they would accept it.

He made a small production of looking around to ensure that he had passed his gaze over the assembled peoples. Local lords and knights from further south averted their gazes or else met his own solidly. Falling to one knee, knuckles pressing against the floor, and his gaze firmly planted on the ground just ahead of him, he spoke.

"I will uphold my vows as a knight of the North," he declared firmly, "I swear to defend the people and interests of the people of The North and her allies, regardless of their faith or Lord. I swear to bring the fight to our enemies, regardless of shape or form. From this day, until my last, I pledge my service to The North."

It was the same oath that members of his own knightly order had sworn. In fact, he could see that members of the same order had fallen to one knee as soon as they realised what he had been declaring. The crowds had parted so that each of his brothers in arms was given the room to witness him giving the same oath. After all, it had been a brief think, but it was what was asked of all new members when they declared their allegiance.

He'd added one part to the oath that wasn't asked of the other members – he'd specified that his service to The North was until death. Others were from other parts of Westeros after all, so they couldn't reasonably be expected to forsake their own homes.

It seemed to be enough, as a series of cheers went up from different parts of the crowd before the majority of people joined in with some applause and cheering. Of course, he supposed some would still not be happy, but there wasn't anything else that he could really do to assure them of his intentions at this point. They would just have to see him prove his words in the future.

Jon stood and shared a pleased look with Bran as the formal atmosphere seemed to drain away from the hall. Bran's timing and knowledge seemed to have proven its worth again here as servants entered to arrange the tables, others arriving shortly after with food and drink. Apparently, there was now enough good will in the room that it could be turned into a feast. People would then associate this whole meeting with the good times of the feast, too, so it would work well to let people forget any misgivings they had regarding the 'outcome'.

His brother stepped away from the centre of attention, and Meera made a motion for Jon to follow along.

Waving off the guards that made to follow him, Jon made his way from what was quickly becoming a rather energetic Northern Feast. It didn't take him long to find Bran; Meera's vigil behind him meant that there was very little chance of missing him. Indeed, Bran was knelt before the Weirwood tree that had sprung up in the centre of the courtyard, Jojen kneeling a little ways behind him as if he didn't see himself as someone worthy of praying close to Bran. Ignoring the strangeness of the Reed boy, Jon nodded a greeting to Meera before kneeling beside Bran before the Weirwood.

Silence stretched as they both just stared into the red-stained eyes of the tree.

"I'm glad that you're back to full health, Jon."

Bran turned and Jon did the same, eyes widening when he realised that his brother's eyes were clouded over, an off white colour that reminded him of storm clouds gathering.

"We have a lot of work to do."


	40. Chapter 39

Note: I have uploaded two chapters here today as I expect to be away from writing for some time with my wedding and following honeymoon. I do hope that you enjoy regardless and a massive thank you to BrokePerception and Hadian for helping me push this through.

Clairvoyance

"You're a right little shite, you know that?"

Jon loved his little brother, he really did, but sometimes the younger man was, as he'd just stated, a little shite. He could understand wanting to be certain that you weren't crazy before coming out with something strange; that just made sense. And yeah, he supposed that he had been away for most of the time Bran had been having his visions, but still, it was annoying that his youngest brother had waited until that precise moment to tell him about the whole thing.

He liked to think that it was mainly because it meant he had been deprived of a big strategic asset in preparing the defence of Moat Cailin but he knew himself well enough to know that it wasn't the only reason. With age and experience came some experience with self-reflection, it seemed, because Jon knew that he was mostly just hurt that his little brother hadn't thought to come to him with this as soon as he had known.

Some part of him was still just a big brother who wanted the admiration of his little brother for just a bit longer.

Just as he was growing up himself, it seemed that Bran was doing the same. Probably doing a better job of it than Jon himself if he was being frank with himself. Out of the Stark siblings, Bran was the one who focused more on the bigger questions – the 'why was there a fire?', rather than 'how do we put it out?' sort of thing.

And, apparently, dropping rather big revelations on people when they were least prepared and then not expanding on them at all.

That was probably why Jon was still sore about the revelation that his little brother had the Greensight. He could accept that, but Bran had told him the truth before declaring that they were going to go out riding the next day and he would explain more then. Well, they were out riding now, along with at least fifty other men, and Bran had still not said a word about the Greensight. Meera and Jojen Reed probably already knew more than him too, judging by Meera's amused expression.

Jojen, though looked a little jumpy, to be honest.

Tightening his grip on the reigns, he cast a glance to his right, where Gendry was just trotting happily alongside them, whistling a happy little tune. So his friend was going to be of no help since he seemed to be doing his best to utterly ignore the conversation that Jon was trying to have with Bran. Perhaps insulting his brother wasn't the best way to start a conversation? Forcing himself to take a deep breath, Jon moved a little bit in the saddle, trying to find a comfortable way to sit in the saddle while wearing his armour again.

The ache in his muscles from the sparring he'd done the day before was pleasant when he was stationary, but on a horse, it was annoyingly painful.

He was distracting himself again.

"Right…" he started again with a sigh, "So this has been going on for a few months now. The Reeds know about it. And so do those Greenmen. You have the Greensight but you're able to use it whenever you like and for whatever you want… I miss anything out?"

Jojen, from slightly behind the brothers, spoke up before Bran could. Jon noted that his brother didn't seem surprised by the interruption.

"I don't think you quite understand how remarkable a gift your brother has, Ser Jon."

There was a sense of mild reproach in the young man's tone, but, honestly, he looked so pale that Jon couldn't tell if he was just sick and he was imagining the tone. It was surprising that the boy was actually up and about. Jon would call him a boy, in the privacy of his own mind, despite his age, because he looked tiny and frail, like a young boy stretched in an unhealthy manner. So Jon didn't take offence to any tone that may have been used.

"Oh, I understand. Seeing the past and the future is an amazing gift."

It really was.

Jon had heard the same stories from Old Nan that Bran and Robb had when they were growing up; − those that the old lady had thought too 'scary' for the girls. Tales of the White Walkers astride their giant ice spiders. Legions of the dead marching against the living. Skinwalkers possessing great beasts and eating people alive. And, of course, the Greensight: the ability to see and know things about the distant past and the far future.

According to the old lady's stories, Bran the Builder had had the Greensight and he had used it to see which building techniques, materials and spells would ensure that The Wall would stand forever.

"Though the Sight in itself is marvellous, Ser Jon, the remarkable part of your brother's talent is that he can exercise unparalleled control over it. I have the Sight, and it robs me of rest in my sleep and strength from my body."

Huh.

So that was why Jojen looked like a stiff wind would snap him in two then? If Jojen was the rule, and Bran was the exception, then he supposed it was rather amazing. To have all of the advantages of an ability and none of its downsides? That was downright unfair.

Considering it was balance in favour of his little brother, Jon was not inclined to complain to anyone about the advantages his brother had, though.

"Jojen is correct, but not in his wording, as is to be expected considering he cannot See my gift with his own," Bran cut in, ignoring the rather dirty look the Reed male sent his way, "I don't have total control over what I See – it's almost like I can ask for guidance on a certain topic and it shows me something. When I do it that way, it doesn't drain me at all, but when I force it, it leaves me weak like Jojen feels when he uses his own."

Okay, so that was slightly more concerning. That suggested that something listened when Bran 'requested guidance', and coming off the back of his own religious experience, he could only really see one collective that would answer Bran's requests. It made sense, though; seeing the past and future was something that was often thought the privilege of the Gods alone. Perhaps it was an argument that his own vision had been the Seven then? Jon's experience with deities was not pleasant after all, even if the end results were exactly what he had wanted.

Or maybe the Gods just felt like taking a gentler hand with Bran? To be fair, Jon recognised that he had a lot to answer for when he died so that might have coloured any interaction he had with them. If he had actually spoken to Gods… It was a confusing subject, to be honest.

"So you can push for it to go in the direction you want, with the drawbacks, or you can go with the flow with gentle nudges and it doesn't affect you too badly." He blinked a few times before sighing. "Sounds like a load of bullshit to me. But I'm not exactly in a position to doubt any miracles nowadays, am I?"

They continued down the track, the lush greens of the Riverlands making the ride rather tranquil. It helped Jon that this time he wasn't making the journey writhing in agony in the back of a wagon. It gave him a chance to just get himself used to being in the saddle again. Thankfully, it appeared that none of his skills had degraded too much, so all he was going to need to do in the future was get back into the habit of honing his skills as he had done before his encounter with the last Clegane.

He reached down to the flank of his horse and lightly clutched the pommel of his sword.

The road was peaceful and the people he rode with were allies, but there was just something 'off' about the whole scenario that he couldn't shake. At the same time, he wasn't quite able to put his finger on it just yet.

Was it a gut feeling about the approaching Lannister forces? It could be, but their scouts were certain that they hadn't crossed at the Twins. Which made the idea of Lannister forces in this region rather unlikely. Maybe some type of bandits? Maybe. War was a very profitable time for men who would wave a sword around at peasants for money, especially whenever the Lannisters and their gold marched off to battle.

Still, though, the vague feeling of unease stayed, tightly coiled, in the pit of his stomach.

They were passing a small stream when he began considering that it might just be his own paranoia. Sometimes a tree was just a tree and not a message from the Gods. He had lived with an almost omnipresent feeling of paranoia for quite some time now; perhaps this was one of the reasons why Bran had suggested they go for a ride? People did that for fun as well, not just to ride down their enemies or train to do so.

It went a long way to showing how out of touch he was with what people expected someone of his age and station to be doing. Even in his own mind, he categorised things that were enjoyable as distractions. Perhaps Gendry was right and perhaps he did really need to just take all his stress out on one of the local whores? There hadn't been time yesterday with the assessment of his skill level, but there would be time tonight, he was sure.

It would be nice to be able to relax, because right now, that feeling was still going strong in his gut.

Lucky for him that he had someone on hand who could give him some clarification then, wasn't it? He turned slightly in the saddle to focus on Bran, freezing in place when he found his brother already looking directly at him with a small, knowing, smile.

"This was planned, brother."

For a wild second, Jon felt white hot fury race through his veins as his mind immediately jumped to the conclusion that Bran had taken him away from Moat Cailin because he intended to have him killed. It lasted only a second, though, because this was Bran. Almost as quickly as his anger had flared up, Jon regretted letting it get that strong in the first place, and for doubting his brother at all. His face flushed from the anger and the embarrassment at having assumed the worst of his brother in the first place.

Before he could speak his mind, however, sounds distracted both him and the men they'd brought with them. Metal clashed, war cries and death rattles resounded.

Fucking hells.

How had he missed the signs? There wasn't any wildlife because animals tended to steer well clear of battlefields until the dying had stopped. Then they came out to pick at the remains, naturally. Still, he'd been involved in battle enough to have seen the signs, so he reserved the right to be angry at himself for just casually trotting onwards with his younger brother now in danger.

He hadn't been directing them, though.

Jon's grip on Red Rain tightened as his head snapped back to regard Bran directly. He wasn't sure what expression he had on his own face right now, because, honestly, he seemed to be running a gauntlet of different emotions right now. Had Bran manipulated him into a battle?

"Yes, I planned for you to be part of this battle." The answer came, once again, before the question, "We've already had this conversation, Jon. I know everything you're going to say, so can you save us both the time, lead the charge and rescue the 'delegates' from the Martells?"

What?

No, no, the only question he had right now was: what the fuck?

Alright, so he had decided that he was angry. That was a start, and it was better than he'd managed to do before Bran's declaration. Growling darkly, Jon drew Red Rain easily from its sheath aside his horse's flank. If he was less annoyed at being manipulated, he might have noticed the way Meera tensed at his fast motion. As it was, he only had eyes for his brother, who still looked so Gods damn calm.

Though now he seemed to be a little sad.

Fuck that. The little shite didn't get to manipulate him into a battle before he was back to full form, keep valuable information from him and then dismiss his concerns with a pithy comeback. He was probably being unreasonable, but he would apologize later.

"We'll be having words about this later, Bran," he promised his brother, gripping the reigns tightly in his free hand and raising his sword up high as a rallying point for the men, "Men of the North! The rearmost five of you – stay with Lord Brandon. The rest of you… ride with me now!"

Spurring his horse into motion, Jon could have heard Gendry's bellowing shout of agreement from leagues away as the men pushed their own mounts into motion.

Thundering around the corner of the track, which had tree cover on both sides to obscure the view like most tracks in the Riverlands, Jon had only a split second to take in the situation as it unfolded and he charged straight on into it.

Overturned wagon with spearmen using it as a barricade against mounted attacks by lightly armoured horsemen. Dornish spearmen behind the wagon according to what little information Bran had given him. Light red armour on the horsemen – Lannister scouts? This far ahead of the bulk of the main force?

They couldn't be allowed to report back.

"Death to the Lannisters!"

Gendry had taken the time to bellow his war cry even as they approached their prey, the forty or so Northmen riding on their tail no doubt terrifying the dozen or so mounted scouts. They probably would have taken this chance to run away, but they didn't have time, and Jon didn't have time to think on their actions anymore.

Catching one of the scouts before he could think of the correct block, Jon stabbed forwards with the tip of his sword as their horses drew close. The reddened steel of Red Rain caught the man between his helmet and breastplate with barely a few inches before he yanked to the sword point back. Of course, with his aim being so true, a few inches of steel entered the man's neck before tearing out muscle and veins on its exit.

A gush of claret splashed against Jon's face.

It was exhilarating, to feel his enemy's lifeblood against his skin and know that he was still alive and an enemy was not. Also, the feeling was probably heightened by the fact that he had clearly forgotten to put his helmet on, so death was actually looking more likely than it normally should have done.

Fuck, did he not even have a helmet anymore? Did that get left with the Mountain's rotting corpse?

It meant that the next encounter wasn't going to be easy. One of the scouts who had managed to gather his wits about him was charging him with his sword held for a strong horizontal slash that would be hard to parry with just a sword in hand. Nevertheless, Jon spurred his horse onwards towards his foe, knowing that presenting his back to the man would be asking for death at this point with the distance between them disappearing by the second.

Jon roared a challenge as he pushed his horse forwards, gripping Red Rain tightly in hand as they came close. He forced his horse into that of his opponent and the two beasts bucked and jostled for a place to settle, causing enough of a disruption that Jon was able to grab his own blade halfway down the blade in his gauntleted hand. Using the better leverage and control that half-handing his blade gave him, Jon knocked his opponent's sword up and away from him.

The distance between the two of them meant a full thrust wouldn't have the strength to pierce the man's armour. With both hands being used to deliver the force, and a much shorter length of blade direct, Jon was able to thrust the blade through the man's armour up to the hand gripping his blade. With a good fifteen inches of blade through the heart, or lung and spine, Jon released his grip on the blade itself, very careful not to move his hand along the blade at all.

That was the trick with half-handing; a sharp blade wouldn't cut through your gauntlet if you just gripped it because you needed to move your flesh along the blade to cut yourself. Still, cutting yourself on your own blade was a scary fucking concept, so the surprise he saw etched into the dead man's face made sense.

Even more so when you factored in that his blade was Valyrian steel.

Gripping the man's shoulder, he pulled his sword free of the corpse with the added leverage and surveyed the battle quickly. He relaxed ever so slightly when he realised that the battle was over. The combined advantages of numbers and surprise meant that the Lannister scouts hadn't had chance to either escape or put up much of a fight, so Jon was unsurprised, though pleased, to find that none of the Northmen had fallen in battle.

Dismounting from his horse, Jon sheathed Red Rain at his side rather than back onto the horse. Though Bran said the spearmen were from Dorne, Jon wasn't going to be taking any chances when it came to armed strangers. He ran his fingers through his hair, mindful of his own vulnerability right now. Standing before the still mounted Northmen, Jon was confident in what the positioning suggested as he squared up to the spearmen still half-hidden behind their linked shields.

"Afternoon." He greeted them bluntly with a smile that probably showed too many teeth. "I hear you're Dornish… You're all a very long way from home if that is the case. Who speaks for you?"

One of the spears lowered and the accompanying shield was dropped to the ground. The toughened leather armour was cut for a woman. Jon had a good idea who was standing before him before she removed her helmet and shook her hair clear. Obara planted her spear in the ground and stepped closer, now holding no weapons but smiling a little.

"Ser Jon."

She looked… good.

Let it never be said that Oberyn Martell ever had unattractive daughters. Though many would say that Obara was the least striking of them all, none would deny that she was an objectively pretty woman and the slight sheen and glow she had now from combat just elevated her looks. This was a woman who was pretty but wasn't content with being pretty – she wanted to be deadly too. To be fair, she had proven her fighting ability before to Jon so the bodies before her were hardly a surprise.

She stepped up closer to him, a slight hint of breathlessness about her as she squared up to him. Jon was hard pressed to finish a thought about how striking her eyes were, because she'd punched him right in the mouth.

Jon waved away his fellow Northmen even as he reeled from the blow, stumbling backward slightly with a hand to his lip. Taking his hand away, he noted the blood on his fingertips, but it didn't stop him touching the cut gingerly with his tongue. It probably said something about his life that Jon found the taste of his own blood rather soothing in its familiarity. His footing now steady, Jon noted that Obara looked, at least slightly, concerned.

Well, she had just struck the leader of a group of armed men.

Though her two sisters at her shoulders might have been the reason for that. He didn't doubt for a moment that her distractingly stunning sister Nymeria had probably told her why it was folly to strike him.

Or maybe he just wanted the striking woman to like him unbloodied?

It didn't matter.

Tyene, Nymeria and Obara Sand were here.

If Jon had been back in the Riverlands, this would be something strange enough, but they were in the North. The Neck, to be sure, but the North none the less. The Sand Snakes had no business being so far away from their namesake as far as Jon could see. They had a nice little contingent of men with them as well, though nowhere near enough to count as a force fit for a true battle.

So the nieces of Doran Martell were in the North with barely enough men to count as an escort, had come under Lannister attack, and he had just so happened to be close enough to deliver aid at the crucial moment to women he knew.

Jon barely held in a snarl at the thought of his little brother manipulating him into this situation.

He wasn't saying anything, though, and people were beginning to look a little concerned. Honestly? As if he was mad enough to try and make something out of this. House Martell kept grudges, and he didn't doubt that any fighting now would be pointless. They probably had enough poison between them to kill all of Jon's men even if they did die themselves.

No, better to talk and play out his brother's little farce.

"I'm sure I deserved that for something." He pushed himself to jape, "Though you'll have to enlighten me as to the specific reason."

Nymeria didn't change her stance or react in any way, but both of her sisters visibly relaxed at his response. Obara put her hands on her hips, confidence coming back but with some more caution now that the battle madness was probably gone from her system.

"That is for nearly getting yourself killed fighting The Mountain. We have heard of your exploits, Ser Jon."

Her sister Tyene, whose grin made Jon honestly a little bit uncomfortable, skipped forward and placed a sweet kiss against his cheek. Blinking dumbly, Jon looked down at the smiling woman before turning his attention to Nymeria and Obara for an answer that they didn't seem inclined to give. Tyene herself just smirked, patting him on the shoulder.

"That was for blooding him up! Now…" she declared happily before her entire expression seemed to change to be much more predatory as she looked around the assembled men beside him, "Which one of you men is Gendry, The Bull of the Barrowlands?"

By the Gods, you could hear the fucking capitalisation of the title.

Jon joined her in watching the men, who all seemed to be rather surprised by the events and altogether uncertain as to how to proceed. One of the men, a man from White Harbour if Jon remembered correctly, slowly raised a hand.

"If the reward is from you, my lady, then I can be Gendry for you."

Tyene laughed, thank the Gods, which seemed to allow Jon's men to relax a little bit themselves and laugh, too. Gendry took off his helmet and smacked the other man over the back of his own helm with it.

"You're about a foot too short and far too polite by far, Jasper!" Gendry declared before eying Tyene and the other Sand Snakes with a mixture of amusement, caution and interest, "I have the dubious honour of being that Gendry in particular."

Sharing a glance with the woman, Jon nodded to answer her unspoken question. With only a little bit of surprise, Jon watched as the Dornish woman climbed up onto Gendry's horse with him, wrapping her lithe body around his and whispering into the dark haired man's ear directly. It was with bemusement that Jon noticed how his friend's face began to slowly redden, getting more so as Tyene seemed to have no intention of finishing up her whisperings anytime soon.

Nymeria and Obara came to stand beside him as their escort set about preparing the wagon for movement again. As nice as it was to see his rather 'worldly' friend blushing like a maid, it answered none of the questions he had about the Sand Snakes' arrival.

"I highly doubt you've travelled to scold me and congratulate Gendry," he noted dryly, perhaps a tad bluntly if he was honest with himself, "Can either of you two tell me why three of the most dangerous, and well-connected, women in Dorne are here at the Neck?"

The sisters shared a glance that Jon pretended not to notice.

Before either of them could answer, however, Bran and the rest of the Northerners had arrived on the scene. His younger brother smiled as he dismounted and approached.

"Why, I hardly think that matters right now, Jon," he declared with a bright and enthusiastic smile, "These young ladies have travelled far, and we would do well to get them to Moat Cailin so that they might rest! Whatever their reason for being here, they are now guests of the North, and I refuse to be anything but a gracious host in our father's absence."

His brother was laying it on a bit thick, wasn't he? Jon had absolutely no doubts that Bran knew all about why the Sand Snakes were here. Hells, he wouldn't put it past Bran to have known about it for days or even weeks. His younger brother could see the future at will – nothing of note would ever be able to surprise him ever again, he'd wager.

Just as Jon himself yielded the discussion to his younger brother, so too did Obara step back and let Nymeria engage Bran in conversation.

"You are most kind, my lord," she declared with a slight bow that made it practically impossible not to have your attention drawn lower than her eyes, "My sisters and I are here to speak with a representative of House Stark. It seems a stroke of luck that we have met with two members of House Stark here instead! Indeed, we have been sent by our lord uncle, but I fear he requested we avoid any possibility of battle so we, regrettably, had to steer clear of your eldest brother and lord father."

Bran managed to look sympathetic, but Jon noticed that the expression didn't reach his eyes properly. He resolved not to draw attention to his brother's falsehoods if neither of the Sand Snakes had not caught it themselves.

"And yet you have still been assaulted by men of House Lannister… Well, my lady I will not have you out in danger any longer!" he declared with a small bow of his own, "I insist that you two take the horses of myself and my dear brother. Some small measure of comfort for the last leg of your journey before true rest. My brother and I will simply need to exchange some words regarding how best to assist your escort to Moat Cailin before we set off, so if you'll excuse us."

Nymeria and Obara both made some polite remarks but Jon didn't much care. He was being given the chance to talk to his younger brother, and he was under no illusion that it was probably to have a conversation to stop him from feeling quite so much like a game piece on a board. Jon jerked his head to one side, and he led Bran a few feet away so that they could have some measure of privacy for their brief discussion.

And it would be brief.

Jon forestalled Bran's opening statement with a raised hand, asking for his patience as he pulled his thoughts together. Letting out his breath in an explosive sigh, Jon raised a hand to his forehead and rubbed hard at his eyes.

"Bran, you know I don't like being manipulated. And you, I've got no doubt, know all of my objections and have prepared counter arguments in advance." He lowered his hand and met his brother's eyes steadily. "Don't lie and say otherwise. You knew this would happen and you knew we would argue about it. You know what everything that I can say or do before I can do it. You could engineer your manipulations to be forever unseen with your ability to see every pitfall and every possible outcome or any action or word."

Neither man said a word as they just stared at each other. It was the truth, after all; Bran could, and would, always be several steps ahead of Jon, so any argument they had would end exactly how Bran allowed it to. There was no possible way that Jon could get Bran to stop manipulating him if his younger brother wanted to continue.

However, Bran was still a Stark of Winterfell.

"Bran… swear to me that you will use your gift to the betterment of our family and the North." He urged his younger brother, "Use me if you must or if it is convenient. But please, have that pure purpose in mind when you do. Can you swear that to me, brother?"

A much truer smile crossed his brother's face.

"Of course, Jon. I swear it." He agreed easily before glancing back at Obara and Nymeria, an action mirrored by Jon. "Besides… their arrival is good for you, for them and for their family. And, in the long run, it will mean stability and prosperity for the North as a whole."

Jon was relieved that Bran was being so forthcoming with his designs regarding the Sand Snakes, but he didn't like the way his brother turned back to him with a sad expression firmly in place.

"I hope you'll remember that when the time comes."

He didn't know what to say to that cryptic comment, so he said nothing and just watched as Bran mounted a spare horse and began to play the role of the happy young lordling again for Nymeria and Obara's benefit. What did it even mean? He supposed it meant that Jon wasn't going to like something about this particular scheme, but when and why were unclear.

Gods be damned for giving his brother the Sight, for it was going to drive him to an early grave. He knew it.


End file.
